


All Creatures

by catsndogs



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Light Angst, Partnership, Pre-X-Files Revival, UST, X-file
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 58,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsndogs/pseuds/catsndogs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully investigate a series of animal attacks.  (This is an X-file -- concentrating on the strong partnership between our favorite FBI agents.  It contains DEEP friendship/ relationship/ respect and UST).  Some vague spoilers.  Time setting somewhere in the season 5 through very early 7 time frame (pick a time when the X-files were open and staffed by our dynamic duo)</p>
<p>This fiction is my homage to the X-Files and the chemistry found in a partnership that eclipses most other TV relationships before and after.  While the bones of this story is an X-File, the meat is Mulder and Scully.  This is lengthy, so if you want a quick fix, you should probably move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sacramento 8:21PM

Rancho Cordova neighborhood  
Sacramento, California  
8:21 PM

David Brants closed his cellular phone with more force than was strictly necessary. If one of his ASACs, Agent Chow, pestered him one more time about the X-files...

He took the steps of his front porch two at a time. He had just updated Chow earlier in the evening. Did she expect him to call headquarters on his way home? It was almost midnight back there. Any respect he had as the Sacramento SAC would evaporate if he began waking his Bureau superiors over some requisition he had submitted a week ago. On the other hand, since Brants was requesting assistance from the notorious X-files division, that respect might have already become a distant memory. 

Agent Brants unlocked his front door. As it swung open, he froze. There was a distinctive metallic odor in the house. Blood, he thought, his heart throwing itself around his ribcage. Fresh blood. 

Along with the surge of adrenaline, the smell brought memories. It had been years since he had been a field agent, arriving at a crime scene while the corpse was still warm and the blood was bright and wet.

Brants drew his pistol, thankful that he had worn it tonight. Although he usually kept a gun tucked away in his office or car, he hadn't physically carried a weapon with any sort of regularity since he had been promoted from ASAC, fifteen years ago. Being chained to a loaded weapon was the one thing he never missed about moving to more administrative responsibilities.

Brants sniffed again. The odor was gone. He frowned and inhaled deeply, but only the familiar smell of home greeted his nostrils, with its combination of potpourri, leather couches, soap and dog.

Must have been his imagination. The pressures of a long day at the office on a Sunday, combined with going too many rounds with Agent Chow. That woman just didn't know when to stop. He was the Special Agent in Charge, damn it! That fact alone should guarantee a little hesitation on her part before she charged into his office.

Brants sighed. Chow was an excellent agent, however, and had stepped into her ASAC position a year ago with poise and authority. She had a history of reliable judgment, and it was primarily her insistence which led to him being armed tonight. 'Insistence' was too strong a word, but this recent case had made Chow paranoid. And her paranoia was contagious. 

Imagining the smell of blood. . .

But he didn't put the gun away. Brants edged silently into his house. The precaution bordered on silly since he hadn't exactly been silent unlocking the door, but better late than never. Briefly considering whether he should call for backup, he dismissed the idea as very premature. 

The lights were on in practically every room downstairs, but that was no surprise. His wife, Jennie, was always in a rush when she went to her bookclub on Sunday nights. He moved slowly from the entryway into the living room. Everything looked in order. 

Then it hit him. Crayon, their Great Dane, wasn't bowling him over in his usual greeting. The years dropped away to Brants's time in the field, and the old FBI training kicked in. He dropped into a more defensive position and hugged the wall. He started searching the familiar rooms of his home methodically.

Brants found Crayon in the kitchen, the dog convulsing on the linoleum floor. He dropped to his knees beside the animal, still retaining enough presence of mind to stay next to the cupboards and use them as a shield. Just in case.

"Cray," he muttered, running his hands over the jerking limbs. He holstered his gun with a pang of trepidation. But the house was silent, almost as if it was waiting. 

Crayon stopped jerking and started panting heavily. Checking his mouth, Brants found it was empty. When did dogs develop seizures? Could it be poison? 

David Brants reached up to skim his hand along the counter top until he encountered the telephone. He peeked up to survey the house and was once more struck by the lack of anything out of the ordinary. Punching in a phone number, he pressed hands down on Crayon's large paws. 

"Hello." The smooth female voice was too cheerful, too loud in his ears. "You've reached Dr. Dennison's service. Would you like to leave him a message?" 

"Hello?" Brants was amazed his voice sounded steady. "This is David Brants. I'm a close friend trying to reach Dr. Dennison. It's a veterinary emergency. My dog is having convulsions."

"Let me get the spelling of your name, sir."

Brants heard her fingers tapping information out on a computer keyboard. "Forget it," he said gruffly. "I'll text him directly." He severed the connection. Fumbling through his wallet, he found the needed business card, punched in the handwritten numbers and entered his home phone number with the words "Crayon please call."

Then he smelled it again. Blood, definitely blood. 

Brants carefully put the phone on the ground next to Crayon, his heart doing more somersaults in his chest. No mistake this time. No imagination. 

Unholstering his gun again, he moved past the dog to the laundry room door. The tangy smell of fresh blood was stronger, and Brants had a dreadful sense of foreboding. He slowly opened the door, holding his breath as he saw a figure crumpled in a heap next to the washing machine.

His wife's eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling, her blood seeping from at least half of a dozen stab wounds. Jennie's pale face looked young, relaxed in death. Her hand still held car keys.

The years of Bureau training evaporated in the space of a heartbeat. His weapon slipped from his numb hands. Jennie! The rushing sound in his ears drowned out the clatter of the gun onto the floor. His internal voice screamed her name, but his ears barely registered a low guttural moan rattling from the back of his throat. Brants heard the telephone ring, sounding as if it was on the far side of a long tunnel.

Oh, Jennie. It was his last thought before Brants was suddenly shoved from behind, his already weak legs collapsing underneath him. He landed on top of his wife before he felt a knife slide between his ribs. He felt hot blood run out from his wound and pour down his side, the sharp pain of the knife stabbing again, and then he stopped feeling altogether.

 

***********************************

 

Economy Motel  
Sacramento, California  
2:48 AM

The drone of the fan and heating unit greeted Special Agent Dana Scully as she stumbled into her motel room. Although her only burden was a garment bag, Scully questioned whether she could make it to the bed before she collapsed. 

So she compromised. Letting the bag drop in the doorway, Scully didn't spare the effort required to set the deadbolt or turn on a light, and instead melted into the nearest chair. Closing her eyes, she listened to the heater's whir, punctuated by her breathing. The heater was doing its job a little too efficiently and she debated if she could overcome her inertia to get to the thermostat. Next door, she heard her partner drop his luggage. Mulder's bags might have made it a few feet further into the room.

The click of a deadbolt told Scully that her partner had a deeper energy reserve than she did, but that wasn't surprising. Mulder's paranoia had always been a constant source of strength. 

For both of them. 

Her lips quirked ruefully at the thought, and Scully managed to drag herself off the lumpy chair and match Mulder's action, stretching up to add the chain for one more level of security. The lack of light in the room washed the color out of everything, including her red hair, but turning on a lamp did not suit her mood.

Well, since she was standing, she might as well complete her standard checking-into-a-motel routine. Scully carefully removed the extra suit and blouses from her garment bag, hanging them in the closet. Easing out of her shoes, she slid them behind the closet door. At least she had worn her no-nonsense black pumps. Until the airline found her luggage or she managed to go shopping, these pumps would be the extent of her footwear for this trip.

Scully moved to the nightstand, automatically unlocking the connecting door to her partner's room as she passed it. She switched off the heater for her room, but let the fan run. Her FBI-issue P228 and holster were removed with a sigh of relief, and she took a moment to rub her lower back where the holster clip had rubbed for the past 20 hours. Sliding the gun into the nightstand drawer, she left it open for easy access, and sat down on the bed.

She should have ignored the telephone this morning. Any time Mulder called her before 6 AM, the day inevitably unfolded into a personal nightmare. Today had been no exception. A scramble to pack her bags, an hour caught in morning traffic on the way to the airport, the rush to catch the earliest flight west, all events separating her from a much needed cup of coffee. 

The two hour delay on the runway with a screaming baby had been a wonderful addition to the day. Watching her partner, Scully had been tempted to strangle him. Mulder's attention had been buried in the case file, his hearing protected by his headphones and his envious ability to focus beyond "minor" distractions.

Scully pressed a hand against her temple. She wasn't sure when the headache had joined her. Too bad the horrible morning had been merely foreshadowing for the day instead of the main event. The turbulence on the flight had made her too nauseous to enjoy that coffee she had craved and completely unable to read the sections of the file that Mulder had handed to her as he finished with them. 

They had missed their connection in Chicago, requiring another hour of traipsing from gate to gate before finally finding two seats, separated by the entire aircraft, on a flight that required another change of planes. To make that connection, they had to run from the end of one terminal to the opposite end of the airport. 

Despite being burdened with the combined weight of their carry-on luggage, Mulder's long legs and running habit had propelled him to the correct gate almost five minutes before Scully arrived. Since the flight was full, he had been forced to check most of their bags, including her overnighter. The only bright point of the day was that Mulder had used those five minutes well. He had charmed a flight attendant into rearranging other passengers to find them adjacent seats near the front of the crowded plane. 

Now, her feet were protesting the long run in high-heeled shoes with a couple of blisters. As usual, the lack of leg room combined with Mulder's height and indifference about personal boundaries meant that his knees had encroached on her space. She would have gladly suffered the rest of the trip--with another flight delay, lost rental car reservations, and throbbing headache--without complaint, if she could have stretched her legs out over Mulder's lap. 

He probably wouldn't have noticed since he spent most of that flight unconscious. Usually, Scully was relieved when Mulder slept on airplanes. He needed rest whenever he could scrape some together. Tonight, however, Scully had to battle against the ungracious urge to elbow her partner awake to share the travel misery.

Scully grimaced at the memory. It seemed only appropriate that the airline had sent her luggage on to Hawaii by mistake. A bad day wasn't complete unless your suitcases could see more of the world than you did.

Mulder's knock on the connecting door prevented Scully from sinking into a complete depression. "Yes, Mulder?" she called out, starting to stand up again. But her legs rebelled, so she remained perched on the side of her bed. 

He poked his head in, blinking at the darkness. At least he had the decency to look tired, Scully thought, especially since it was three in the morning. His dark hair was attractively rumpled. 

"Here's an extra t-shirt, Scully," he said, tossing it onto the bed, "and the stuff you bought at that all-night grocery store." That bag also landed on the bed, and Scully almost felt better at the idea of brushing her teeth.

Before Mulder could disappear through the connecting door, Scully mustered sufficient energy to ask, "Mulder, do you have an extra pair of shorts?"

He looked startled for a moment before nodding. When he returned, he waggled his eyebrows at her. "Boxers, Scully." These were also tossed on the bed, landing neatly beside the other contributions to the Dana Scully charity. Mulder left the connecting door open a crack when he left and called, "Don't forget we have a 8 AM meeting with Agent Chow."

Scully muffled a groan. With the last shreds of will power she could squeeze out of her body and mind, she scooped up her partner's donations and stumbled into the bathroom.

Mulder's shirt ended just shy of the edge of the boxers. At least it was a simple, white undershirt, instead of something red, emblazoned with "Remember Roswell" in gold capital letters. She recalled seeing that atrocity in his closet, though Mulder claimed it was a gift. Solving the case had moved down on her priority list, behind lapsing into a coma and buying replacement clothes.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Scully noted that Mulder had placed the case file on her nightstand. Her headache had prevented her from reading on the plane, and when Mulder attempted to discuss it with her, his words had only swirled around her brain without being registered or contemplated. Something about animal attacks. He was a smart man; he stopped explaining case details when Scully ignored him, continually rubbed her temple, trying to relieve her pulsating headache.

Although she was drained, Scully switched on a lamp. Luckily, the ibuprofen she had swallowed in the grocery store aisle was starting to wrestle her headache down to a dull throb. Stretching out on the bed, she dutifully opened the case folder. With that morning meeting with Agent Chow, it would probably be more productive if she could contribute more than a blank stare.

The file contained the requisite photographs of dead people, some in color, some in black and white. Seven different individuals over the last 2 months, four from various bite wounds. The file also included data on the latest victims, the Sacramento SAC and his wife. The information on them was new, faxed. 

Perhaps it was the late night, but Scully couldn't see the connection between their deaths and the animal attacks. They had both been stabbed repeatedly. The other death in the case folder which failed to involve animal bites was a fall from a ten-story building. Two eyewitness accounts mentioned the victim being pushed over the edge of the roof by a dog. Must have been a very large dog, she mused. 

Scully leafed through the file, searching for the autopsies. Despite her intentions, however, and the interesting details in the folder, she found her eyes growing heavy. The next thing she knew, her forehead was resting on the paper mapping the attacks, her red hair fanning out over the drawing and scribbled dates. Scully pushed the entire file away, surrendering to sleep.

*************

Special Agent Fox Mulder jerked awake from another nightmare, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears. The unfamiliar surroundings added to his unrest for a frightening instant before he remembered that he was on site in Sacramento on another X-file. The early morning sun was starting to penetrate the threadbare motel curtains. What had felt like a couple of minutes of sleep must have been a couple of hours.

The tension of the nightmare had already shriveled away. It hadn't been his usual night terror. His gaze moved instinctively to the connecting door to his partner's room. Mulder frowned. A narrow stripe of light stretched across the mottled carpet. Did Scully stay awake the entire night?

Mulder ran a distracted hand through his disorderly hair. More trips like this, he thought, and he'd wake up all grey. Yesterday could have made the most experienced traveler break down in tears, and Scully wasn't known for her fondness of flying. He hoped she didn't think he left that case file in her room as a command to review it. 

His partner had been putting in a lot of unpaid overtime recently. The past week had been a chaotic balancing act, trying to meet deadlines for expense reports and the annual budget and workload analyses. He suspected that Scully was operating on a long stretch of nights where she had a maximum of four hours of sleep a night. For him, four hours was often adequate, but Mulder knew Scully was usually in bed before midnight.

And, lucky her, she had drawn the short straw for reviewing autopsy reports from Quantico for quality assurance. He could never prove it, but he believed those types of assignments weren't as random as their superiors claimed. She was only halfway through the stack, and there were some of those reports in her suitcase detoured to Hawaii right now. Scully had bestowed upon him one of her few smiles of the day when the airline had lost her luggage. Oh well, she had commented, perhaps if she lost a few postmortems, she'd never be 'asked' to do a QA review again. 

He switched on his bedside lamp, illuminating the tired motel room. Given a choice, Mulder wouldn't have selected this assignment. A few random animal attacks didn't constitute an X-file. You could gather a similar number of attacks over the same amount of time anywhere in the United States. Though, he had to admit, most of those attacks wouldn't have culminated in death. 

However, they weren't given a choice about the assignment. AD Skinner had made that crystal clear, overriding his objections. The request for their assistance had come directly from the SAC of the Sacramento Field Office. The now deceased SAC.

Mulder rolled off the mattress and crossed the room silently. Pushing the connecting door open, he couldn't suppress a smile. The contents of the case file occupied half of the bed, spread haphazardly on top of the comforter and littered on the tired carpet. Some of the pages and photos looked suspiciously crumpled. The other half of the bed was Scully's territory, and she was curled up into a ball, her face hidden by her soft, glowing hair.

Mulder found himself beside her bed with no recollection of having actually moved. He silently gathered up the pages of the file and tucked them into the file folder. Scully looked absurdly small, almost fragile, in the dim light of an autumn dawn. 

His t-shirt was bunched up around her waist, exposing a small strip of skin above his borrowed boxers. He never thought *his* clothes could look so attractive. Swallowing hard, Mulder reached across his partner to cover her with the bedspread. 

Scully murmured in her sleep, one bare leg curling closer to her chest. Mulder froze at the motion, tantalized by the sound of her skin sliding against the sheets. 

He jerked his head to clear it. She's your partner, he thought, a familiar chastisement which he seemed to using more frequently. He better leave before Scully woke and caught him gawking like a hormone-ruled teenager. It had been a long time since he thought of Scully in that way. 

Well, okay, not a long time. Not even a short time if forced to admit it. But he tucked the thought away with the ease of experience. 

He'd let her sleep for another hour. She would need it after yesterday's travel fiasco. Mulder closed the connecting door quietly and dropped the case file on his bed. He made a mental note to call the airline regarding her luggage. But first, time for a run and a shower. He smirked humorlessly—a run and a cold shower.


	2. Sacramento 7:52AM

FBI Sacramento Field Office  
7:52 AM

Dr. Lambert paced the conference room, waiting for the arrival of the two agents from Washington, the ones working on the X-files. He knew his agitation was beginning to irritate Agent Chow, but he didn't want to sit down again. 

He had nothing in common with Agent Kaitlin Chow aside from being assigned to the same case. Not that he disliked the woman, but they had no chemistry together. He did the autopsies, and she read about them. He would rather be back at the coroner's office, examining the victim of the most recent gang slaying or something similarly mundane.

As he paced, Agent Chow stirred creamer and sugar in her coffee, her gaze fixed on the latest pathology report. She didn't look at him, but Edward Lambert could feel her attention following him around the room. 

He found it difficult to believe someone so tiny could be an FBI agent. Since it was officially her day off, she was dressed a little more casually in dark slacks and a green blouse. Her gun was fastened at her right elbow, partially obscured by her waist-long veil of black hair. That was another thing, Dr. Lambert thought disgustedly. She was an Acting SAC for the FBI, damn it! She should never look casual. It used to be a common joke that Agent Brants had slept and showered in his suit and tie.

At five minutes until eight, Agent Chow glanced at a text from her cell phone before setting down her coffee mug and finally glancing his direction before turning away. Lambert stopped pacing as she stood and followed her gaze to the conference room door. 

It swung outward quietly. A dark-haired man stepped aside to allow his partner to enter the room first, though Lambert noted that the man scanned all corners of the room. Both agents wore dark, enveloping trench coats, and Lambert saw the brief metallic flash of a gun under the outstretched arm of the man.

Lambert frowned, another short woman, though her sunset-red hair was a contrast to Agent Chow's midnight black. It must be his lot in life to be surrounded by miniature, female law enforcement agents. Didn't the FBI have height requirements?

At least the man--must be the infamous "Spooky" Mulder--would have passed any height limitations. He was tall and lanky, moving with an ease which suggested an air of confidence. Or indifference to matters outside of the agent's focus. Lambert noted Agent Mulder’s hand releasing the door as his partner passed and how he stepped in close behind her before returning to survey the room. Lambert eyed him carefully, his attention caught by the man's bold blue and green necktie. 

From what he had overheard from Brants last week, Lambert had been expecting someone more...irregular. Brash neck wear did not equate with insanity. Not that the former SAC had used the word to describe this Mulder guy. Brants had always guarded his opinions closely. But Lambert had heard him argue with Agent Chow, saying he was "reluctant" to request the input of someone so controversial within the Bureau.

Dr. Lambert's gaze returned to the redhead again attempting to make his scrutiny subtle. Slender and attractive in a form-fitting navy suit, she would have caught his eye in any situation. He had a soft spot for porcelain skin and full lips. 

From the SAC's briefing, Lambert recalled that Agent Scully was a forensic pathologist, supposedly one of the Bureau's best. Even without the title and accolades, however, Lambert would have deduced the intelligence behind the beauty. Dr. Scully's blue eyes were alert and serious, matching her partner's in their intensity.

Agent Chow extended a hand. "Agents Mulder and Scully?" she questioned with a smile, "I am Kaitlin Chow, Acting Special Agent in Charge until the politics settle. And this is Dr. Edward Lambert from the County Coroner's Office. Welcome to Sacramento. We hope this visit ends on a better note than your previous cases here."

Although it was the redhead who shook Agent Chow's hand, it was Agent Mulder who returned the greeting. "First time our presence has been requested by a dead man," he said.

Dr. Lambert watched with interest as Agent Scully tilted her head slightly at her partner. "We hope we can be of some assistance, Agent Chow," she replied.

"Have you followed all of our cases?" Mulder interjected with a sharp tone which bordered on distrust. But his expression was bland, perhaps in deference to his partner's warning.

Before Agent Chow could respond, Scully stepped forward, a polite smile on her face. "We are always a little startled when our reputation precedes us, especially on the opposite side of the country." Agent Scully’s head tilt barely changed angles but her eyes made contact with Mulder's.

Mulder gave his partner a nod, and Lambert felt like he was intruding on a secret side conversation. They seemed to have reached an agreement, though he couldn't begin to hazard a guess on the subject. Calm radiated off of Scully's petite exterior, and Lambert knew instantly which one of the pair was the diplomat.

Oh hell. He just knew he wasn't one. By now, he had forgotten whether Chow had requested his presence or if he had been the one to suggest it. "Nice tie," he muttered in Mulder's general direction. "Agent Chow, if you'll excuse me, I should finalize the report on David and Jennie Brants. You know where to reach me. Agent Scully, if you have any questions about any of my autopsy reports, my contact information is available through the county" He nodded to the room at large and made a hasty escape, squeezing between the two X file agents.

 

*****************************

 

At the retreat of Dr. Lambert, Mulder tapped thoughtfully on the knot in his tie. Once he put on these useless death collars, he tended to forget about them. The tie he wore today had been a birthday gift from Scully. She had been smiling broadly when he opened it--back when she smiled more--and he had always wondered about the humor. The pattern seemed conservative enough. 

Because he was red-green colorblind, he couldn't evaluate the color combination. But he had worn it occasionally over the past few years without any remarks, so he knew the hues were not neon. Of course, there was an outside chance that his co-workers had become immune to his tie selection, and nothing short of flashing lights and dayglo would generate a verbalized opinion.

However, he trusted Scully to tell him if the tie was too wild. She never reserved comments when it came to his attire. In fact, one late Friday night, they had separated his tie collection into conservative, borderline, and disaster categories. She had spent the evening sorting and muttering, "okay, okay, FBI uniform wear, wild, okay, maybe, okay, no way, possibility, garbage can, okay, Mulder, *this* one is an X-file. . ."

Agent Chow interrupted his thoughts by motioning for them to take a seat. "I have to apologize about Dr. Lambert. He's an exceptional ME, with a natural talent for forensic work, but prefers to stay in the morgue." 

"His autopsy reports are very thorough," Scully commented, placing the case file onto the table.

"Yes, they are, aren't they?" The Acting SAC pushed a heavy carafe and two styrofoam cups in their direction. "Please help yourself to some coffee. The mornings in Sacramento this time of the year can be chilly, and I find coffee takes the edge off until the sun warms things up. Did you have any difficulty finding the Field Office?"

"The directions were clear, thank you," Scully answered.

Small talk, thought Mulder impatiently. He deftly poured two cups of coffee, adding creamer to Scully's cup before relinquishing it to her. She acknowledged his gesture with a glance. 

He waited until she was taking a sip to enter the conversation, knowing she disliked when he was overtly antagonistic. "Plus, as you know, we’ve been here before.” he said with the trademark subtlety which won him plenty of friends at headquarters. “If we can discuss why Scully and I were called out…" 

Agent Chow gave him a wry grin, as if she had been expecting his restlessness, and the knowledge made him uncomfortable. She slid a thick folder next to theirs on the table. Opening it, Chow began very slowly turning through the pages. "Our paperwork should match up on some of the older parts of the case, but you will not have received everything. Please let me know if you are missing anything." Mulder noticed that she directed the last statement solely at him, her eyes intent on his face.

He felt a twinge of unease, his suspicious mind picking up Agent Chow's implication immediately. Although his eidetic memory wasn't exactly top secret, it wasn't highlighted in his personnel records either. Last he checked, he wasn't wearing a sign on his forehead, advertising his photographic memory. Unless, like the colorblind tests, the information was hidden in the pattern of his tie. He could see how Scully would think *that* was humorous. 

He made a waving gesture above the table, perhaps more sharp than what would be considered polite. "Agent Chow, perhaps you could answer some questions first." 

She closed the folder and leaned forward. "It sounds like a reasonable request to me, Agent Mulder," she replied. 

Her gaze was direct and unwavering, suddenly reminding him of AD Skinner. Must be a Bureau training session as personnel advanced within the FBI hierarchy, he speculated, maybe something labeled Quantico Course 325: Nonverbal Intimidation. He resisted the urge to run a fidgety hand through his hair, but he did spare a glance in Scully's direction. 

Mulder refocused his train of thought and mentally sifted through his numerous questions and choosing one at random. "How do you believe the murders of Brants and his wife relate?"

Agent Chow reached for her mug. "I am not sure," she admitted reluctantly. "There are some people in the office who think the inclusion of their deaths in this case is, frankly, preposterous. Ordinarily, I'd be the first to agree. It's true that neither of them have a single animal bite on them. However, their dog was present at the time of the attack, supposedly suffering a seizure." 

"I don't understand," Scully said. "Do you suspect the presence of the dog is relevant? Was the animal was poisoned?" 

"Nothing irregular was found by the veterinarian. The seizure work up was negative." Agent Chow shuffled through the papers in front of her before giving one to Scully. Mulder saw the heading, a preliminary autopsy report on Brants. "In regards to your first question, Agent Scully, I don't know how it relates to the murders. I only mention the fact for completion. 

"Although I lack the support from the Field Office, I feel it's not a coincidence that Brants was murdered soon after increasing the manpower assigned to this case. At my recommendation, Brants had requested assistance from your department as well. Also, despite the questionable jurisdiction, he upgraded this investigation over othersfor use of Bureau resources."

While Scully skimmed over the preliminary report, Mulder opened their case folder. Knowing the exact order of its contents, he turned quickly to the desired page. It was slightly crumpled from Scully's early morning 'review.' "The date on this requisition is October 9th," he pointed out, "two weeks ago. Brants had specified priority processing."

"And that usually has a decision within 72 hours, Agent Mulder. Yes, I know. I spoke with Brants repeatedly after the requisition was filed. He submitted it to the Section Chief, Agent Corganman, but somewhere between here and there, the requisition and the forwarded copy of the case file evaporated." 

Agent Chow drummed her fingers absently on the table. "After Brants was murdered, I took things into my own hands and personally contacted AD Skinner. I thought perhaps you two were embroiled in a higher priority case, and I hoped to convince him to pull you. Imagine my surprise--and frankly the uneasy feeling I had--when I heard the request had never been received to be evaluated."

"We've been doing background research for a number of cases, but nothing urgent for the past few weeks." Mulder glanced at his partner, offering her a silent apology for crushing her last several days of work into that mild description. 

For someone suffering from sleep deprivation and an extremely limited wardrobe, Scully had amazing endurance. When he had returned from his run this morning, Mulder had found her typing information into her laptop, her hair barely damp from a shower and the file at her elbow. 

Agent Chow reached over to tap on the face of the requisition. "My father always said you got a better price if you cut out the middleman, so I faxed a copy of this form to AD Skinner immediately. With my. . . encouragement, Skinner agreed to bypass the normal routes of bureaucracy."

"But Agent Chow," Scully objected, "We obviously have the file and requisition in our possession."

"AD Skinner circumvented the missing requisition by officially sending you and Mulder to California to profile the murderer. As soon as that assignment was on record, the file just appeared on Skinner's desk with no hint as to where it had been for the past two weeks." Agent Chow shrugged. "I don't like it. On the other hand, I don't like much about this case."

Mulder didn't either. "When do we meet with the rest of the investigative team?"

Agent Chow laughed, but to his ears, it was forced and edged with anger. "I'm it, Agent Mulder. After David Brants was killed, Corganman flew out from headquarters to oversee the investigation. He reassigned every last agent. It's rather an understatement to say that Corganman doesn't believe my theory attaching the murder to the animal attacks, so most agents are investigating Brants's death under a separate case number."

Shrugging, Agent Chow took a sip of coffee. "As Acting SAC, Corganman can't specifically take me off a case, since I'm not truly 'on' any cases, but to hamper my involvement, he won't sign off most expenses, especially anything concerning animals."

"And our assignment is to profile the murderer?" Scully asked. "When do we speak with Agent Corganman or the official case agent?"

Mulder half-wished she hadn't posed the question. He had worked under Corganman years ago, before Scully was his partner. The man was granite. He had a reputation for fairness, but Mulder found him to be opinionated and obstinate. And Corganman's intense dislike for the use of instinct and intuition in detective work had clashed painfully with Mulder's modus operandi.

He had a strong suspicion Corganman would have preferred a different profiler. He probably threw a tantrum when he saw Mulder's name on the requisition approval. But to recall Scully and him back to Washington before the assignment was complete would be a waste of government funds. More importantly, it would be a direct insult to AD Skinner and any other high-ranking names in the Bureau who had signed off on the request.

The reluctant look on Chow's face confirmed Mulder's theory. "The Section Chief would prefer that any administrative matters be channeled through me. Honestly, I don't know if this arrangement is because he would like to unofficially grant me some field agents to continue my investigation, or because he is not too enthusiastic about working with you directly, Agent Mulder."

Someone knocked. "Agent Corganman on line 3," a muffled voice announced through the door.

"Speak of the devil." Agent Chow grimaced. "Please excuse me; I'll be right back." Her gaze flickered to the table and the two folders, but she didn't say anything more.

 

*****************************

 

Scully barely allowed the door to close completely behind Agent Chow. "Okay, Mulder, how did you alienate Section Chief Corganman? It's blatantly obvious that you two are not close friends."

"It's a long story." Mulder opened the updated file in front of him, hoping to kill the topic of conversation.

She waited, cooling off her coffee with short puffs of air from pursed lips.  

Mulder blinked.  Hoping Scully hadn't noticed his gaze on her mouth, he determinedly moved his attention to the stack of papers.  He let the silence stretch as he spread out some photos.  

With his focus on the case file, he felt more than saw Scully lean closer to him.  "They all are," she added, and it took a moment for Mulder to realize she was referring to the story of his history with Corganman.  For someone with a job description that included working on dead bodies, Scully often demonstrated an incongruous desire to resuscitate issues he would rather keep buried.  He stayed silent.

"Mulder." Scully would give it one last attempt, and they both knew the dance. "It must have been a good story as well as long. The attention we received here in the hallways wasn't hostile, but it was speculative. It reminded me of the atmosphere at headquarters when we initially started working together."

He was surprised at her comment, both that she had noticed and that she would try to discuss it. Although he knew it would irritate her, he kept his attention on the case file while remarking, "And they say you can never go back, Scully."

But after a moment, Mulder couldn't resist making eye contact to see if he got under her skin. He had. Time for an olive branch, he conceded. Since Scully was running on insufficient sleep, he would be foolish to risk any 'friendly fire.'

"Has it been that long since you've received a speculative glance?" Watching her expression, Mulder admitted his statement was probably the wrong olive branch but the temptation to poke at his partner had always been difficult to repress . He shrugged, gave her his best grin, and tried again. "It honestly is a long story. In the end, I forgot to bake him a cake."

Scully stared at him. Finally, she broke the tension by rewarding him with a small smile of her own. "Best that you didn't Mulder. I've seen you bake; Corganman might have required my medical services."

"As a pathologist, Dr. Scully?"

Mulder centered the updated file between them and began sifting through additional pages. He didn't know how far Scully had read last night, but he suspected by the number of crumpled pages he had collected earlier that her review of the case was incomplete.

"In summary, what we have here are a series of deaths." Mulder watched his partner carefully for a signal of impatience, but she only nodded, drinking her coffee. "A total of four animal attacks, two from dogs, one by a horse and the fourth by a combination of dogs and cats.

"The fifth victim is a man who was pushed from the roof of a building by a large dog, witnessed by two people. The victims are a neurologist, a chemist, two veterinarians, and a cashier who moonlighted as an animal handler with the pound.” He tapped on the appropriate photos as he listed them. “Agent Brants and his wife were stabbed repeatedly. Their dog was present at the time, but supposedly incapacitated."

"The only autopsy reports I saw were for the latest victims and one pathology report on the horse."

"Yes,” Mulder replied, noting that if she saw the horse pathology report, she had made it past the halfway point of the case file.   He slid a hand under the report and question and flipped over the stack to reveal the next document.  “Although Dr. Karen Hayes was the first victim, her remains had already been cremated by the time this case was opened.” He turned a couple more pages. “ The second victim, one of the veterinarians, Dr. Teresa Chavez, was mauled by her horse in front of witnesses. An autopsy was never performed, though I believe we could have the body exhumed if deemed necessary. The third victim, Dr. Kurt Hembry, was a chemist at Western Chemical. His family refused to allow an autopsy."

"So the only autopsy report we have where the subject died of direct animal bites is the fourth victim."

"Glory Peterson, yes." Mulder noticed Scully's cup was empty and refilled it, passing her the creamer.

"And, outside of being mauled by her own dog, the ME found nothing unusual." Scully sighed. "Veterinarians and animal handlers, by definition, have a concentrated exposure to animals and therefore an increased risk of injury or death due to animal attack. Who's to say, Mulder, that most of these cases aren't just a result of that increased exposure?"

Mulder smiled. Nothing like that rigidly scientific mind to slice through the evidence. "It's possible, Scully," he conceded. "This morning, based on the incomplete file we received, I would have agreed with you."

"I don't sense an agreement in that statement, Mulder."

His smile grew. Mulder handed her a newspaper clipping from Agent Chow's folder. "Here's the disagreement."

"Sudden surge of dog attacks in the East Bay," Scully read the headline. She looked at the date. "This ran over nine months ago."

"Surveying 8 regional hospitals, there were a total of 62 people treated for animal bites in a 2 day period."

"I'll admit that it's outside the bell curve, Mulder," Scully said. She ignored his muffled grunt at her extreme understatement. "But it's also outside of the time frame of the animal attacks for this investigation." She tucked the newspaper clipping back into the folder as Agent Chow reentered the room without knocking.

Mulder didn't want to share ideas with anyone other than Scully and turned back to absorb more evidence. He could never accuse his partner of lacking intelligence or perspicacity, for she did not attempt to continue the discussion.

The room was quiet as Mulder flipped through more photographs.  One picture caught his attention immediately. It was a kitchen knife resting in a bowl of bloody water. He turned it over, but there was no caption on the back.

"That's the murder weapon for Brants and his wife," Agent Chow explained, leaning closer. "Dog bowl. The dog's a Great Dane. The blood in the water is a mixture of both victims. Only prints on the knife belong to David and Jennie Brants."

"Hair and fiber?" Scully asked as Mulder continued his perusal of the other photographs.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," was the reply. "Agent Scully, do you require an autopsy bay? As you know, we don't have immediate access to any bodies except the last three victims, but we can make arrangements as necessary."

Mulder didn't hear all of his partner's answer as he examined a close-up picture of the murder weapon. The blade was six inches long, straight. There were irregular indentations in the surface of the wood handle. He flipped quickly through the rest of the file, pausing at some animal autopsy reports.

"--before it becomes final," Scully was saying when Mulder finally looked up. "From Dr. Lambert's prior work, I'm sure nothing has been missed. However, I would feel more comfortable with both his and my conclusions if they match after independent autopsies."

Agent Chow nodded. "Actually," she replied, "you will be able to compare notes with Dr. Lambert's autopsy and another coroner.  Agent Corganman also wanted the procedure duplicated to make sure nothing was missed."

Mulder carefully gathered both files. "Speaking of autopsies, three out of the five animal pathology reports are written by the same veterinarian who found the bodies of David and Jennie Brants.  Is he a suspect?"

"Currently, no," Agent Chow tucked long strands of her dark hair behind her ear. "In the future, probably not. Dr. Dennison actually brought the series of animal attacks to Agent Brants's attention. Brants and he played the occasional racquetball match, and he was the family veterinarian for the past five years."

"Dr. Dennison?" Scully seemed startled. "Would the veterinarian happen to be a Dr. Michael Dennison?"

"Yes, though most people call him--"

"Dennis." Scully smiled, a touch of wistfulness behind it, and it was Mulder's turn to be surprised.

He felt a twinge of some emotion he didn't want to examine and kept his voice neutral. "Scully, do you know him?"

She nodded. "We were undergraduates together. We shared a lot of classes and became good friends. Being extremely enthusiastic about our coursework and eventual professions, we were the most consistent members of our study group." She hadn't stopped smiling.  "Dennis isn't a killer, Mulder."

Although he didn't contradict her, Mulder didn't eliminate the man from the possibilities. He made a mental note to question his partner more thoroughly at a later time. Mulder knew from experience that Scully's underlying kind heart didn't give her a perfect history choosing friends, thinking about Tom Colton, Jack Harris. . . himself.

"Six weeks ago," Chow explained, "Dr. Dennison had a strange conversation with a former veterinary classmate, the second victim, Dr. Teresa Chavez. The record of the conversation, as accurately as Dennison could remember it, was not included in your folder."  Agent Chow checked her watch. "Since you know him, Agent Scully, you might want to meet with him today. He owns a veterinary clinic in Pleasant Hill."

Mulder noted Scully's enthusiastic nod. "What was the 'strange conversation'?" he asked.

"Dr. Chavez was scared. She had previously alluded to some top secret animal research for the government, but never discussed the details of her work. When the chief neurologist for the project died under mysterious circumstances, Chavez became worried. She and Dennison had three brief telephone conversations over a period of six days, but according to Dennison, Chavez was evasive and vague.  During the weekend before her death, she and Dennison attended an Exotic Animal Symposium in San Francisco.

"By that time, Chavez had decided she was overreacting and attempted to dismiss her previous alarmist attitude. However, when they met for dinner with a group of their colleagues, Chavez pulled Dennison aside. She gave him the names of three banks where she had rented safe deposit boxes and had placed summaries of her research.

"Although she did not discuss project details, Chavez mentioned that she only knew most of her fellow researchers solely by their first names. When her horse grabbed Chavez by the throat and crushed her larynx, Dennison went to the local authorities. They took a statement, but that's about it."

"The safe deposit boxes?" Mulder asked.

"When Dennison received no action from the local authorities, he went to Brants. As you know, even if it was murder, with a horse as the murder weapon, it's not under the FBI's umbrella.  However, Brants checked the banks anyway and confirmed that Chavez did have safe deposit boxes, but they were all empty. He also ran a search to see if any neurologists had died within the prior two weeks, and pulled up Dr. Karen Hayes."

Mulder leaned toward Scully and confided in a stage whisper, "And Dr. Hayes was a federal employee."

"Only a half day per week at the Sacramento VA," Agent Chow confirmed, "but that's enough for jurisdiction if the Bureau wanted to investigate. Initially, Brants only mentioned the case to me in an unofficial capacity. He did give me a list of those first names that Dennison could remember. Two weeks later, another death by animal attack. Because the victim's first name was a match, and we moved the case onto the books and submitted a 302."

"There is no list of names in the case file," Mulder remarked.

Agent Chow pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Every death in the case has been a match."

Mulder clenched his jaw to keep from asking why Agent Chow kept the list out of the official case file.  Skimming it, Mulder argued, "Except for the SAC and his wife."

Her response was a sigh. "Yeah." Chow looked at her watch again. "I have a last-second meeting starting in five minutes followed by an afternoon shuttling my kids around town. You have my cell phone number.  If you would like to use this conference room as an impromptu office, please help yourselves."  She held her hand out for the list, and Mulder handed it over without comment.

Scully collected the case file swiftly.  "Thank you, Agent Chow. Please contact us if there is anything you would like to discuss regarding the case."

"I will." Agent Chow paused at the doorway. "And Agent Scully, I'll contact Dr. Lambert. An autopsy bay and the remains will be available at your convenience."

Scully nodded, straightening both case files.  The Sacramento file was much thicker, but Mulder's quick perusal had covered most of the discrepencies.  He took both folders and tucked them under his arm. 

Mulder noted that Scully's blue eyes seemed to lack intensity, probably due to the faint shadows under them. He wondered if yesterday's headache continued to drain her. The only time during the meeting where she had shown her usual enthusiasm was when she was remembering her old classmate.

Scully was watching him just as closely, however, and Mulder realized that she was waiting patiently for him to propose another extreme theory. He hid a frown. Was she reserving energy for the disagreement ahead?

A Field Office conference room wasn't the ideal place for such a discussion. Never knew who might be listening. Tucking the two folders under an arm, Mulder said the one word that he knew would make his partner happy.

"Breakfast?"


	3. Sacramento 8:58AM

Dana Scully sat back in the booth, pulling her attention from her reading to consume the last bite of strawberry pancake. The animal postmortem reports varied in detail. Those written by her old college friend were as thorough as the human ones by Dr. Lambert. However, knowing Dennis and his study habits, it was hardly an astonishing revelation.

Looking across at her partner, she saw he had also cleared his plate, wiping out a breakfast ensemble of a ham and cheese omelette, hash browns, French toast, biscuits and bacon. Mulder's impressive appetite and iron stomach could still surprise her. Scully wondered briefly about his cholesterol level. He wouldn't appreciate a comment about hearing his arteries clog, especially since she had raised a challenging eyebrow when he had ordered his cholesterol binge. 

Her gaze dropped to the pictures he was arranging. Sweeping his empty dishes to the edge of the table, Mulder placed his selections carefully on the surface. The black and white photos depicted death as stark and pale, appearing more gruesome, to her eyes, than the color ones. 

Mulder was extremely focused, nudging aside glassware and utensils with the back of his hand. Scully reached out to rescue a plate before it plummeted off her partner's makeshift desk. Clearing the remaining obstacles to a corner of the table, she glanced around the restaurant, checking if the collection of pictures was disturbing anyone nearby. 

Since medical school, Scully had been able to tolerate most reading material while eating. Working with the X-files had only served to hone that skill. However, she doubted most people would be enthusiastic to see a collage of dead bodies over their breakfast. Luckily, their isolated corner table was just that--isolated.

They had been partners for years, and sometimes Mulder's concentration, his intensity, continued to amaze her. And his ideas could still shock her. Often, it seemed as if he created the most extreme hypothesis to irk her. Then, with data and her critique, he gradually evolved his theory.

Sometimes the idea became remotely possible. 

Sometimes. Scully smothered a smile. If Mulder's views were in left field, at least she could keep him in the ballpark. Sometimes.

From experience, she knew Mulder gathered case data without a working hypothesis. Then, in one indefinable moment, he reached a threshold, and the scattered pieces of information would magically coalesce into an instant conclusion. Mulder would make an incredible leap of intuition, a leap she could seldom make herself. Many times, he would be correct. She had witnessed his mind at work countless times and was frankly envious of it. She sighed.

Mulder's gaze met hers over the photographs, attempting to gauge her mood. "When did you want to do an autopsy on Brants and his wife?"

Scully grimaced. "It's not at the top of my priority list since there will already be two separate MEs performing postmortems, " she admitted after a moment. "I might do a cursory examination, but there are rarely any significant new findings on a third autopsy."

He nodded. "A cursory sounds like a good idea, Scully. We don't know anything about Lambert or the other ME. Why don't I drop you off at the County Coroner's office. I want to talk to the witnesses at the site where the dog pushed Dr. Kinghaven to his death."

Scully condensed the necropsy reports into a neat stack. "Mulder, I'd also like to see Dr. Dennison sometime this afternoon or evening," she said, placing the papers in the case folder.

"This isn't a class reunion, Scully."

Startled, Scully looked up from arranging the reports. Mulder was sorting the pictures before him and didn't make eye contact. His face was expressionless. Expressionless for someone who didn't know him well.

His remark had a familiar tone to it. It had resembled the one she had used upon meeting the pert Dr. Bambi. At the time, she'd been tempted to throw Mulder into a dung pile. She had, fortunately, made it to the solitary confines of her car before growling, "The X-files aren't a substitute for the personal ads, Mulder." The sentiment behind her statement had been unsettled and angry.

Was it jealousy she had felt regarding Bambi? Detective White? Resentment? Were those what Mulder was feeling now? Scully had convinced herself that her feeling of displeasure stemmed primarily from disgust that Mulder could be led around by his...testosterone.

Hearing her partner, now, she had to reconsider. The feelings might run deeper than her rationalization, and that frightened her. She didn't want to evaluate that. Yet. 

"I'm not requesting a class reunion, Mulder," she replied firmly, amazed her voice was steady. "Dr. Dennison--"

"I know," Mulder cut over her, deeply engrossed with the photos. "No, I want to question him too. Especially since, according to the police report he has Brants's dog at his house."

Scully clenched her jaw to keep from snapping at him that she didn't want to see Dennis to 'question' him. Mulder still wouldn't make eye contact, quite intentionally, she suspected. 

Years of working with Mulder didn't equate with an immunity to his ability to exasperate her. She watched him move the pictures around, sliding them across the table. Change the subject. Scully reached under his elbow and snatched a few items from the case holder. "Did you read these postmortems for the animals?" She carefully injected a Mulder-I-don't-know-how-to-interpret-this tone into the question. Her partner could never resist a mystery.

Mulder did look up, then, almost eager. "Anything of note?"

"On first impression, no," she replied, hiding a smile. "Dennis sectioned the brains of each animal, but he found no evidence of rabies. No tumors. The only item of note is that the brains of the dogs and cat had more sulci and gyri. And the ventricles were smaller." She flipped open one of the reports to the copies of the imaging pictures, and offered it over.

He scanned it. "What does that indicate to you? More thinking power? More surface area?"

Scully barely managed to hide a smile. There went Mulder again, immediately leaping to the most extreme theories. This time, however, his ideas paralleled hers, though her conclusion had been reached with less haste and in more methodical steps. "More brain mass altogether," she confirmed.

"Smarter animals?" 

"Possibly." Scully was intentionally noncommittal. "What do you think is happening, Mulder?"

He shrugged, handing back the report. "I don't know. Any other abnormalities?"

"Keeping in mind that the postmortems were done almost a day after the animal's death, there were elevations in the concentration of dopamine and serotonin in the CSF. It could reflect an increase in those neurotransmitters in the brain. Alternatively, it could just be a result of neuron breakdown and deterioration."

"All of the animals had this increase?"

She shook her head. "Difficult to say, Mulder. The necropsies performed by Dennis did. He sent fluid from the spinal taps to two separate laboratories. The other veterinarians never looked for these indications specifically."

Mulder didn't respond, and Scully watched as he returned his attention to the pictures. His face had a familiar impatient expression. Her partner hated not knowing, being in that nebulous time before the data solidified into a theory. Scully always found his  
anticipation to be both amusing and irritating. 

Reaching across the table, Scully stole the rest of Mulder's orange juice. Probably the only healthy item he ordered this morning, and he didn't even finish it. Draining the glass, she predicted it could be another ten minutes before Mulder's focus returned to her.

Scully tucked the postmortems back into the case file, and then did a quick check of her weapon. A glint through the restaurant window drew her attention outside. The morning was warming nicely with the characteristic blue California sky. She suddenly felt light-hearted. "Did I ever tell you the story behind that tie, Mulder?" 

Mulder looked up, his gaze was wary. "No."

She smiled. "I had actually already purchased you a birthday gift, but the day before your birthday, I was looking for something for Melissa." 

Scully paused, suddenly not enjoying the story as much when she considered her sister. Mulder appeared uncomfortable also, so she plowed on. "I was in one of the more expensive department stores when I spotted Agent Colton."

"This obviously isn't a cheerful story."

"This was soon after our first encounter with Eugene Tooms, and Colton obviously wasn't one of my favorite people in the world. I ducked behind a rack of clothes. He didn't see me, but he was coming my direction. I was burrowing deeper into the jacket section when Tom's attention was caught by one of the tie displays."

Although Mulder's expression was neutral, Scully could feel the tension from him. "Scully," he warned, "please don't tell me that this tie was chosen by him."

"That's the great part of the story, Mulder. But let me finish. You could just see his eyes light up. He fell in love with that pattern and bought it immediately.

"You didn't steal this tie, did you?"

"Mulder, stop trying to guess the punchline." Scully shook her head at his impatience. "As I was hiding, practically buried in the winter jackets, I remembered that Colton was teaching a weapons course at Quantico for the rest of the week." 

She rolled her eyes. "That, by the way, is a joke in itself. Anyway, he wasn't due back at headquarters until Monday."

"*Is* there a punchline, Scully?"

With the practice of many years, she ignored his question. "After he left the store, I rushed over and purchased the same tie. I had them wrap it there, so I could give it to you as soon as I returned to the office. It was expensive, but worth every penny."

"You bought me the same tie as Colton for my birthday, Scully. This is supposed to be funny?"

"Think," she prompted patiently. "What happened when you opened the gift?"

Mulder sat back in the booth, replaying the day in his mind. "You had a big smile on your face. I didn't know you well enough to realize that meant trouble."

"What else?" she prompted patiently.

"You were very insistent that I wear it the next day." His eyes narrowed. "Which was the day of the big meeting with the Violent Crimes Section in the morning."

"And the general staff meeting in the afternoon."

"That was a waste of a day."

"It certainly was not!" she disagreed. "Mulder, I spent a lot of time talking with people and finding ways to bring attention to that tie. It was extremely important that everyone noticed it."

"I do recall several compliments." Mulder smiled, realizing his partner's prank. "So you stole Colton's thunder. I wondered why you insisted I wear it immediately."

"I didn't steal his thunder, Mulder." Scully aligned a few of the photos on the table. "You did." 

Her own smile widened. "Colton sauntered into work on Monday, returning from playing God to a bunch of novice agents at Quantico. He was wearing that tie as I predicted. I should mention that it looks much better on you than on him." She reached over the table to straighten the knot. "In the middle of a crowded hallway, in front of both his ASAC and his SAC, I glided up to him and said, 'Tom, I *love* that tie. It reminds me of, I can't place it, but it reminds me of something. How spooky.'"

"You didn't," Mulder said.

"I certainly did. His ASAC, his SAC and at least ten other people in the hallway looked down at his tie. No one said a thing for a very long, wonderful moment. I thought I might have to be the one to crush him, but Agent McMillan came through. He said, 'Isn't thatthe exact same tie Fox Mulder wore last week?'"

"It would have been a better birthday gift if you let me be in that hallway, Scully."

"Too obvious that way. You can embarrass the next jackass," she promised. "It was beautiful; his mouth fell open and you could almost hear his chin hit his chest. He turned a gorgeous shade of red, too."

In her glee, Scully rested her hand briefly on Mulder's. "Then, I had to administer the coupe de grace. In the reigning silence, I just tilted my head and said, 'You're right, that is Mulder's tie. They always said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.'"

"You didn't," he said again.

She gave a light chuckle. "I certainly did," she assured him. "Is it my imagination, or is this conversation becoming repetitive?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "I'm glad you're on my side, Scully." 

"Always,"she assured him as he started to gather up the photographs. She handed him the case folder so he could tuck them in. "Any new ideas?"

Mulder threw a tip on the table then held out a hand to help her slide from the booth. "Only that you have a devious streak."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman who almost loses her liver," she informed him. Good, he was smiling again.


	4. Rancho Cordova 5:12PM

Mulder leaned against the door frame of the laundry room. The crime scene was silent. There was little evidence that a double homicide had occurred in the house less than four days ago. That an army of FBI agents had swarmed through the house searching for clues and collecting anything that could be evidence.

He was looking down at one indication. Although the chalk tracing of David and Jennie Brants resembled a pale octopus on the dark tile, he found no humor in the situation. With the obvious blood stains and his eidetic memory, his mind easily superimposed the photographs of the bodies over the white outlines.

Mulder had been surveying the scene for over an hour, his hands moist from their prolonged confinement in latex gloves. Unfortunately, his examination of the crime location was uneventful and unrevealing. He had found no new leads to distract Scully's upcoming wrath. 

She would be upset that he was late. But Scully would be more angry that the cause of his delay was his visit to the Brants murder scene without her, without calling her. Her displeasure would be justified; it usually was. However, it was difficult to eliminate, or even curtail, habits he had developed prior to their partnership. 

Scully probably wouldn't believe him if he confessed that he used to be a lot worse. Whenever Mulder became involved in a case, it monopolized his focus. He had trouble recalling "nonessentials" like food, sleep and fire-haired partners. 

Recently, even in the midst of his obsessions, Mulder had been remembering Scully's existence more often than the other two details combined. He attributed it mostly to her stubborn inability to be ignored, even when he actively tried. Admittedly, Scully's tenacity had saved his life numerous times.

Crouching down next to the outline, Mulder wished--not for the first time--that he *had* waited for Scully before viewing the Brants residence. The only insight he had gained from his investigation was an unwanted understanding of the lives of the victims rather than the motives of the killer. The afternoon had dampened his mood. 

With Scully's efficiency, she would have intercepted his prolonged inspection of the many family portraits clustered on the bookshelves and mantelpiece. The pictures had covered the lives of the Brants from marriage to children and grandchildren.

There had been two pictures of David Brants as career FBI man. One, faded, depicted a young Agent Brants graduating from training at Quantico, his smile proud and energetic. A more recent picture showed him accepting a commendation, his determination and energy not dampened by the passage of thirty years. In the newer photograph, Mulder had recognized Agent Chow and suspected the back of a tall, bald man could have been AD Skinner.

Besides the laundry room, the remainder of the house was immaculate. No signs of forced entry, no signs of theft, nor any indications of a search. Not even a sign of a struggle, something Mulder would have expected from a thirty year FBI veteran. 

The only items out of place were the faint blood stains on the kitchen linoleum where the dog bowl and murder weapon had been found and the absence of the cordless phone. Brants had made his last phone calls on a land line, despite having a cellular phone on his person. The former SAC had been very strict about using Bureau equipment solely for Bureau matters and had led by example.

Reaching out to skim the chalk outline, Mulder steadied himself on the low sink by the washer. A smear of dried blood just under the sink's rim caught his attention. From the light residue of powder, the area had already been dusted for fingerprints. 

He ran an exploratory finger along the underside of the lip, coming away with dog hair, some strands stained with blood. Although it would be a squeeze for a Great Dane, the sink was the perfect height for washing a dog. It probably wasn't noteworthy, but he saved the clump of fur anyway, placing it in a plastic evidence bag extracted from a coat pocket.

Time to go. Mulder didn't have to check his watch. By the time he arrived at the coroner's office, Scully would be near the end of her patience but not quite into the irate stage. Years of experience had cultivated his exceptional sense of timing as far as his partner was concerned. Although he usually knew how far to push his actions to keep her from boiling over, he seldom admitted how often he kept her temper simmering.

He closed the door to the laundry room and surveyed the kitchen one last time. According to the police report, the distance between the laundry room door and the location of the cordless phone was one hundred sixty-three inches. The murder weapon had been obtained from the knife block on the counter a few feet beyond that.

He couldn't say why. He could never really say why. But Mulder stopped at the set of knives. Although a good set of fingerprints were rarely obtained from unpolished wood surfaces, the block had also been dusted.

None of the handles had the same odd indentations as the murder weapon. Pulling out the largest knife, Mulder examined it carefully. Nothing extraordinary, a typical cooking tool. He slid it back into the block, but missed the correct slot. The knife became jammed and required extra pressure to pull it out again. As he did, Mulder noticed a few small flakes of red upon the steel blade. He almost dropped the knife in his surprise. Dried blood.

Quickly returning the knife to the proper opening, Mulder tried, and failed, to peer into the remaining slot. The killer must have replaced the knife after the murders at some time before placing it into the dog bowl. After a moment of contemplation, he searched the kitchen cabinets for a large plastic bag and wrapped up the knife block for evidence.

Mulder dropped the evidence bags unceremoniously into the trunk of their customary dark rental sedan. He happily shed his gloves. Because there was no convenient garbage can, he tossed them in the trunk as well. 

Driving through the neighborhood, Mulder noted how quiet it was. Most of its residents were at work or school. He didn't pass another occupied vehicle until he turned onto a major street. It had been quiet also on the evening of the murders, with no one had noticing anything unusual.

His cellular phone chirped loudly as he pulled onto the freeway. "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Her voice wasn't as unhappy as he expected.

"Scully, I'm on my way." Mulder suppressed a grin. Here he was complimenting himself on his excellent timing where his partner was concerned. The coincidence of her phone call and his leaving the crime scene reminded him pointedly that she knew him as well as he knew her.

"Where are you?"

"Two minutes away," he exaggerated.

"Just pick me up in front of the building, Mulder. Don't bother to park the car. I think you owe me dinner."

He did, but he wasn't going to acknowledge it without a fight. "And how did you decide that?"

"Mulder, one you're late. It doesn't require five hours to look at the roof of one building. I doubt you're calculating the size of the attack dog from the trajectory of the fall. Remember, I've seen you do math, and although it probably *would* take you five hours to perform the equations, you wouldn't waste the time."

He didn’t bother to acknowledge the jab. "I could have been interviewing the two witnesses."

"For five hours? Only if they had been women out of your one of your videos. Somehow a 59 year old 'Jerome Lane' and 83 year old 'Ms. Elizabeth Greenstone' hardly fit that description."

Mulder grinned. "Some people age very well, Scully."

"Two, you avoided telling me where you were. In my experience, that means you went to another site. I'm guessing you examined the Brants residence since it's the only other crime scene in the Sacramento area."

"If that's a guess, I'd hate to argue with you when you're sure."

"Mulder, you always argue with me when I'm sure," she replied. Her tone was resigned. "It's been two minutes."

"Must be off by a factor of ten, Scully. You've already remarked on my mathematical deficiencies."

"Did you find anything?"

"Hmmm..."

"Dinner, Mulder." Scully knew his preference for keeping important details off telecommunications. "According to our agreement, you owe me a meal for violating a restraining order and failing a lie detector test."

"I always fail your lie detector tests."

She didn't react. "I'm going to call the airline to see if they found my luggage."

After Scully cut their connection, Mulder attempted to review the case. The preliminary autopsy report had placed the time of death between 8:30 pm--the time of Brants's telephone call to the answering service--and 9:30 pm, the time Scully's undergraduate friend, Dr. Dennison, reportedly found the bodies. 

The veterinarian had supposedly visited the Brants residence because he had been paged and nobody answered the telephone when he returned the call. He had been "in the neighborhood" at a nearby veterinary clinic on a cardiology consult. How convenient.

But Mulder had verified the story. The answering service and animal clinic and pager company records had confirmed it. And Scully's college friend knew everyone. The receptionist at the veterinary clinic, the woman at the answering service, hell, even the customer service representative for the pager company had sung the man's praises. Friendly, warm, bright, energetic. The list was nauseatingly glowing.

No one was all of those things. Except perhaps Scully, but only with him, and he would secretly add other complimentary adjectives. Unfortunately, very few people at the Bureau would use those words to describe her. Short-sighted assholes. Except Agent Pendrell. Unlucky, love-struck techno-dweeb. 

He tried to pull his focus back to the case and Dr. Dennison. Anyone with that many accolades Mulder would have placed at the top of his suspect list, based on mere principle. Mulder's was a world of layers and motives. No one was all sunshine. Not even Scully, at least not the Dana Scully who worked with Spooky Mulder. 

It hadn't always been so, Mulder knew. When Scully had walked into his basement office and life years past, she had been sunshine. And enthusiasm. Through their association, Scully had traded her vivacity for a share of his conspiracies and shadows. Mulder had gained loyalty, determination, and courage, while she had lost her optimism, time, her sister. Her laughter, how long since he had heard her lose herself in laughter?

Case, Mulder, he chastised as he exited the freeway. Scully would kill him for worrying about her. He wouldn't tell her that he had done a more thorough background on her study buddy than most suspects. Mulder knew from multiple experiences that she was protective of family members and friends. He was envious; he usually preferred when she was championing him.

As he pulled up to the front of the County Coroner's facility, he was startled to see Scully was not alone. Dr. Lambert was keeping her company, his face animated as he talked. Scully was smiling, not her small polite smile. She was carrying a large shopping bag.

They noticed him simultaneously. The dark blue rental car screaming out government agency. Scully reached out to shake the ME's hand. His partner appeared to have charmed the socially inept Dr. Lambert, for Lambert's smile was a magnified version of hers, some of the warmth spilling over as he nodded at Mulder. Another Dana Scully convert. Or conquest.

Scully slid gracefully into the front seat, giving a brief wave to Dr. Lambert as Mulder pulled away from the curb to merge into the evening downtown traffic. "No luggage yet. Edward was kind enough to take me to a nearby mall earlier this afternoon, so I could purchase some essentials."

Edward, huh. "Shopping on Bureau time, Scully?"

"Frankly, *partner*, I had finished my autopsies, completed all necessary telephone calls, reviewed the case, and written my field entries. Without transportation, there was little else to do." She settled the bag at her feet. "After yesterday, the Bureau owes me an entire year of vacation." 

"Anything from Victoria's Secret?"

"I did buy something with you in mind," she answered. 

His heart missed a beat at the idea. When he looked across at her mischievous smile, Scully pulled out a bag of sunflower seeds. He exaggerated his sigh of regret.

She opened the bag and propped it up beside his leg. "Where are we going?"

Mulder accepted the snack gratefully. "Field Office. I have some evidence to turn in."

"I called Dennis. We're expected to meet him at the Veterinary Medicine Teaching Hospital at UC Davis tonight. First, however, I want to swing by the motel and check out."

"Check out?"

Scully nodded. "Most of the other crime scenes are towards the San Francisco Bay Area. There are locales in Davis, Vacaville, and Benicia. Dennis has a friend who owns a nice hotel and can get us Economy government rates for rooms better than last night's torture. The rooms would be more comfortable and more clean."

Mulder opened his mouth to argue that Dennison could be setting them up into rooms screaming with surveillance, but he realized it would be futile. *That* idea wouldn't be well received. "More cable?" he compromised.

"I'd never deprive you of the necessities of life." Her smile was reward enough.


	5. West Sacramento 9:03PM

Interstate 80  
West Sacramento  
09:03 PM

 

"What if someone is training these animals to kill?"

At Scully's question, Mulder took his eyes off the passing billboards to gaze across the car at her. They were driving out of Sacramento, the trunk loaded with their luggage. His luggage at least, he amended. Scully's was probably "misplaced" in the Hawaiian honeymoon suite of some couple who wouldn't even think about luggage until it was time to go home. They'd enjoy finding those romantic autopsy reports Scully had packed. 

Mulder watched her negotiate the car smoothly through the evening traffic as he considered her suggestion. Of course, he had already jumped on, and then off, the idea in his own speculation. But that Scully had proposed it independently made him reevaluate.

The air vent gouging into his knee distracted him. He adjusted his legs uncomfortably. He was going to drive for the balance of the case, he promised himself, even if he had to use that new Quantico hip throw on her to beat her to the driver's seat. Who would have believed the rental agency would carry automobiles with bench seats? Mulder hadn't registered the impossible arrangement when he drove the car off the airport lot. 

Actually, he hadn't noticed it until Scully had adjusted the seat for her use, jamming him up against the glove compartment. At his insistence--whining, she had said, but whatever worked--Scully had relented and slipped the bench back a couple of notches. Mulder still received a closer view of the windshield than was comfortable. Might as well crawl into the dashboard and do an airbag imitation. 

She glanced across at him expectantly, and he dragged himself back to the case. "You've seen the photographs," he replied, using his own prior arguments against the notion. "The attacks resemble wild rages more than controlled kills."

"We train animals to kill all of the time. The military uses dolphins to attach bombs to the hulls of ships and submarines." Scully's tone was impartial, but Mulder could read through it to her disapproval of the idea. 

Her attitude wasn't unexpected; anyone who could have cared for that scavenging mutt, Queequeg, had to be an animal lover. Not that he would broach *that* sensitive topic. Especially since he believed it was partly his fault the dog had become a link in a highly irregular food chain. 

Mulder waved a dismissive arm at her. "Controlled environment, Scully. And I don't think the kamikaze dolphins would actually execute the training if they knew the consequences."

"They'd balk due to what? Morality?" She appeared doubtful, but instead of detouring the conversation onto the topic of ethical decisions by animals, Scully returned to her original hypothesis. "Police use dogs in the field all the time." 

"Police dogs *contain* a subject," Mulder countered, adjusting his feet. A little to the left, he might be able to stick them into the engine compartment. "They are trained to hold and intimidate. It takes months of work and lots of padding." 

"Dog fights and bear-baiting aren't 'holding' actions. Those dogs are trained to kill." Scully worked her way through theories systematically. Mulder could almost visualize the checklist in his partner's brain as she noted pros and cons and brought out examples. Scully was nothing if not thorough, especially when considering scientific speculation. 

And she described him as 'passionate.'

The car hit a pothole, jolting Mulder against the panel. "Hey watch where you're driving Scully. I didn't come out to California for a kneecap amputation." He rubbed them melodramatically. "Are you sure you know where you're going without a map?"

"You sound like Bill," she said, and Mulder couldn't decide if he should be more insulted by the comparison to her older brother or that her sideways glare implied that if he continued along that vein, she'd intentionally hit every pothole between Sacramento and Davis. 

He quelled a sigh. "I'm not saying dogs or other animals can't be trained to kill. What I am saying is that to train an animal to to kill like these did, you'd have many dead or maimed trainers."

Mulder rested his hand on the case file resting between them. "These attacks were berserk rampages. According to the witnesses, Dr. Chavez's horse went crazy. It didn't just tear into her throat. It bit her several times, whipped her body about by the neck. Then it went after some of the nearby witnesses. Two veterinary students were injured, before someone located a revolver and shot it."

"Like you said, I've seen the pictures." Scully's voice had an impatient edge. "What do you think is happening? And I don't want to hear the word 'amaru' in your next sentence."

He grinned. "No animal spirits," he reassured her. "Otherwise, I don't know. I do agree with Agent Chow. I think these deaths--except perhaps Brants and his wife--are related. Someone is using animals to kill people."

"If the animals aren't being trained to attack, what do you believe? Pets don't usually kill humans."

"No. It could be an exogenous source. You said the animals had increased amounts of dopamine and serotonin in the brain."

Scully warned him with her eyes. "I also stipulated that it wasn't found in all of the animals. We can't rule out cell death," she reminded him. 

As if he would ever forget any of her scientific opinions. He hid a smile. As if Scully would ever *allow* him forget any of her scientific input.

She signaled and took the next freeway exit. "Mulder, are you suggesting a drug or poison was administered to these animals, causing them to on a rampage?"

"Perhaps," he answered. "But perhaps not. Reportedly, all of the involved pets were docile before they attacked. According to some witnesses, it was like flipping a switch. That suggests a fine control of the situation, finer than a drug. You told me earlier your bookworm pal found no substances in any of the animals during his postmortems."

"Yes, but most human--not to mention--animal laboratories don't have the same spectrum of tests available to them as the Bureau facilities. Something could have been missed."

He shrugged, watching them enter the campus. The area was well lit by streetlights. The Veterinary Hospital itself was with a set of older buildings slightly separated from the main campus. 

There were more pedestrians and bicycles than automobiles. California, he thought, where you could wander around after dark without jackets when it was practically November. And this was Northern California. Los Angeles must be filled with people still wearing shorts.

He rummaged through his coat pocket to locate a few extra sunflower seeds as he pondered the options. "That still wouldn't explain why formerly passive animals suddenly mauled their owners. It also fails to explain why a dog pushed the chemist off the roof instead of tearing him to pieces. That action in itself suggests planning or higher thinking."

Scully pulled the car into an empty parking lot allocated for clients and patients. "Higher thinking?" Her tone was a touch more sharp than doubtful, and Mulder jerked in response, feeling inexplicably guilty. Had she caught him watching the buxom blonde on the bike? But he'd just been surprised to see someone wearing a bikini in October! 

All she said was, "Do you believe that dog schemed to murder Dr. Hembry using a method not involving teeth? Why would a dog care if Hembry died of jaws to the jugular or a fall from a multi-story building?"

"The situations seem more complex," Mulder answered, not addressing her question directly, "more involved than a simple explanation like animal training or more intelligent animals." 

The yard outside of the hospital was sprinkled with pairs of dogs and humans, veterinary students dragging or being dragged by an assortment of canines. Mulder scanned them quickly, searching for anyone who fit his image of the popular Dr. Michael Dennison. No, every human was paired with an animal. 

He turned his attention back to Scully as she watched him. "What if there's a component of mind manipulation or control," he proposed. "Something is triggering the attacks. Perhaps like what happened with Modell."

That suggestion earned him a skeptical eyebrow. "Are we talking dog whammies, Mulder? Are you going to explain to me the scientific nature of a dog whammy?"

He choked down a chuckle. "Animals have less complex brains than human," he defended the concept. "It might be possible to overwhelm any resistance and easily trigger an action."

"Animal brains *are* less complex, Mulder. I will concede that one point. But they don't understand most language. And you won't get me to agree that a dog is going to take a command to sit or fetch and warp it into a command or desire to kill."

With her hallmark efficiency, Scully put a finish to the conversation by climbing out and closing the car door. Mulder followed, sparing a moment to confirm the doors were locked.

"Dana!"

Mulder and Scully turned as a unit, and he saw a man emerge from the hospital entrance. Irish, Mulder confirmed immediately, observing the pale hair and freckles obvious even from a distance and in the dim lighting. Not what he had expected, he thought, as the veterinarian jogged over, wearing an open, welcoming smile on a boyish face.

Dr. Dennison was of average height, taller than Scully in her heels, but only by a few inches. His stocky build was all shoulders and thick-muscled forearms. The veterinarian wore an interesting combination of a casual denim shirt and dark jeans with a conservative tie.

"Dennis!" his partner answered, rushing forward. They hugged, and the veterinarian swung Scully around effortlessly, laughing. 

"It's been a long time, Dana," Dennis exclaimed, gripping her arms. "You look as gorgeous as you were in college. I thought medical school would have at least aged you a little."

Scully beamed at him, "I see grey in your hair, Dennis, but you look fantastic, too. I've never seen you in a tie except for graduation."

"Flatterer, Dana," Dennis replied, flapping his tie at her, "This is an ancient piece of my wardrobe. It's saved my life, I'll have you know."

Mulder let curiosity get the best of him. "Bulletproof?"

Dennis grinned past Scully at him. "Better," he replied. "Clip on. An essential in my profession." He demonstrated and tucked it in a back pocket before extending a hand in greeting. "You must be Dana's partner, Agent Mulder. Please call me Dennis. I've heard many great things about you." 

Exchanging a brief, firm handclasp, Mulder glanced over at his partner, but she was shaking her head. "It looks like Scully wasn't your source," he probed cautiously.

The man was still smiling warmly. "Maybe. The actual route of information was from Mrs. Scully to my mom to me. You could say the original source was, unknowingly, Dana." He looked back at Scully. "Moms make the network, even if it's usually only through Christmas cards."

"Mom always liked you, Dennis."

"In college, my mom blatantly suggested that we should get married, so I guess you could say, she liked you too. Although we never even went on a date, it took a few years for her to get that idea out  
of her system." 

Mulder didn't like the direction the conversation was moving. His stomach was churning, probably from the healthy salad place Scully had insisted upon for dinner. He was about to suggest they talk about the case, when Scully grabbed Dennis by the shoulders and gave him another hug. Mulder gritted his teeth to keep his mouth from dropping open.

"Well the mom network goes both directions, Dennis," she said. "I hear your mom was glad you waited for the right person, and that congratulations are in order."

Dennis turned red. "Thanks, Dana. Carrie says she can't wait to meet you. I think she mentioned something about sizing up the competition." He dug a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and moved over to tuck it in their windshield wiper. Catching Mulder's suspicious gaze, he explained, "Parking permit. Normally, you'd put it on the dash, but this is Davis. No one will steal it."

As Dennis reached up to readjust the stethoscope around his neck, Mulder caught the gleam of his wedding band. He had thought Scully was congratulating Dennison on an engagement, but by the scratches on the ring, the man had been hooked for a long time.

Suddenly, Mulder's indigestion quieted.

The veterinarian waved over to one of the students. "Sara," he called. The young woman who responded was walking a huge black dog. "Sara Quin, these are Agents Scully and Mulder. Sara is a senior student here at Davis. If it's okay with you, I'd like her to join us in the pathology conference room. She has something that might be interesting."

Mulder took a closer look at Sara, who seemed uncomfortable, glancing at Dr. Dennison for reassurance. She was tall and lean, her curly brown hair tied back in a practical pony tail. 

Scully gave the student a smile. "That's a large dog," she said, sparing Mulder a narrowed gaze when he snorted. But what did she expect for that understatement? The dog was as big as a pony. "What breed is it?"

"It's a Tibetan Mastiff." Sara cleared her throat nervously, and she addressed her next words toward Dr. Dennison's feet. "I'll go put him away, Dennis. Meet you when I'm done." 

Mulder half expected the student to ride the dog back into the hospital in her urgency. "Friendly," he muttered, braving another glare from his partner. "Was she one of Dr. Christopher Kinghaven's students?"

Dennison looked startled by Mulder's conclusion but nodded. "She was finishing a two week rotation through radiology just before Dr. Kinghaven was killed. She's a bit scared that there will be repercussions if she discusses his work with you."

"From who?" Scully asked.

Mulder watched the veterinarian consider the question. "Not a mortal danger, if that's what you're asking. Though to a vet student, I'm sure it can seem like life and death. No, Sara's worried what will happen to her in clinics and school if she reveals his actions. Dr. Kinghaven was well liked here at Davis, and a well-respected radiologist." 

Dennis shrugged. "According to Sara, he was performing many computed tomography scans for a client. Davis is one of the few vet facilities nearby with a CT scanner. The client is a business called Animal Assistance, which trains dogs to help physically challenged individuals. They have at least five different kennel sites in the area." 

Mulder tried to make eye contact with his partner when Dr. Dennison paused, but Scully wouldn't meet his gaze. "The scans were irregular," Mulder prompted.

"Not the ones we have in house if viewed individually. He did the CT scans after usual operating hours, and the films he filed--" Dennison gestured vaguely. "I took a look at eight of them, though Sara believes there are actually more than that. The eight scans I saw are exactly the same."

"From the same animal? Or the same breed of dog?" Mulder questioned, already suspecting the answer.

"That's the point. Even with the same animal, if you took two consecutive scans, you'd see positional variation. It's obvious Dr. Kinghaven made multiple copies of one CT scan and filed them in folders of these after-hour patients." 

Scully frowned. "Can we see them?"

"Yes, I have them in the conference room." Dennis led them toward the hospital. "Sara says she assisted Dr. Kinghaven for a scan one night. One of those Tibetan Mastiffs. The radiologist didn't let her examine the image too closely. But on a hunch, I showed her the scan I took of Crayon, David Brants's Great Dane,during my seizure workup. Sara said the CT scan she saw that night was very similar."

As Dr. Dennison unlocked the door, Mulder stopped him. "How were they similar?"

"It was like the necropsies I performed. Crayon has almost twice as many surface convolutions in the brain and about one-third of the ventricular space. In summary, more brain mass."


	6. Winters 11:14PM

Winters, California  
11:14PM

 

The drive up to the abandoned kennel was bumpy at best in Dennis's pickup truck. Agent Dana Scully rattled uncomfortably between Mulder and the quiet veterinary student, Sara. The only way the ride could have been more unpleasant was if the truck was a stick shift, and she were crunched closer against her partner. 

Scully wondered if she looked as exhausted as Mulder did. However, she couldn't dig up much sympathy for him, since it had been at his insistence that they were suffering the rough ride. The late Dr. Kinghaven had used the kennel's address for all the CT scans he had performed for Animal Assistance. Although Scully had attempted to convince Mulder that the visit could've waited until the morning, persuading Mulder to turn from his path was akin to trying to halt an avalanche with a candle.

Michael--funny it was almost impossible to think of Dennis by that name--was alternating between watching the dirt road and following a map he had placed on the dashboard. In the darkness of the truck's cabin, Scully couldn't see much of the directions. She felt him decelerate, as he took the next hairpin turn at a moderate speed, probably out of consideration for the cramped quarters.

Suddenly a fallen tree leaped into the truck's headlights, and Dennis slammed on the brakes, the truck sliding sideways on the loosely packed road. Scully felt Mulder throw a protective arm in front of her as they jerked to a stop. It hit her hard across the clavicle, his elbow jabbing sharply into her right breast. But she appreciated it, for it was infinitely better than fracturing her forehead on the dashboard.

"Everyone okay?" Dennis asked, opening the driver's side door to turn on the interior light. At the general murmured assent, he climbed out of the truck and reached back to rummage under the front seat. He pulled out two flashlights. "Good thing I carry a spare. Sara do you have any penlights on you?"

As the student searched through her pockets, Scully passed the extra flashlight to Mulder. In exchange for his impromptu seatbelt imitation, she would use a penlight, allowing him to play the big manly man with the flashlight. The only problem with her plan was that no one else seemed inclined to exit the truck.

Scully nudged her partner's leg with her own. "Come on, Mulder," she grumbled at him. "Move over."

"What's the rush, Scully?" he replied, but he opened the passenger side door. "It's not like we can move a tree that large if we all got out and tried." Despite his argument, Mulder climbed out of the truck and turned on the flashlight.

Scully accepted the helpful hand he offered to jump down from the seat. "What ever happened to your belief in the improbable?" she asked. Mulder must be exhausted if he wasn't enthusiastic about running around aimlessly in the night. An X-file couldn't be categorized as such if it didn't include dimly lit chases.

He didn't answer her as they squeezed between the log and the side of the truck. They walked over toward the light from Dennis's flashlight. Dennis was surveying the area around the tree for a path shallow enough for the truck to climb. But it was a long ridge of rock almost as tall as she was. 

"Is there more than one road?" Scully asked, trying to peer over the tree into the darkness.

Dennis nodded, but didn't appear happy about the prospect. "Three total," he answered. "One goes up the back side of these hills from the Bay Area. Most of the traffic to this kennel came from that direction. The road's actually paved, but it'd add more than an hour to the drive. We passed the turnoff for another option eight miles ago. It's a much rougher road, if you can believe it."

Scully gave a brief chuckle. "Dennis, you'd be surprised what I believe in nowadays." Or who, she thought, watching her partner explore the area. The beam of his flashlight fluttered erratically as Mulder negotiated his way up a few rocks.

Dennis gestured with his light toward the southwest. "We're actually very close here. The kennels should be less than a ten minute walk over this hill. It's a bit hidden, but if it were daylight, you could see the roof of the facility."

"Hey, Scully," Mulder called from the base of the twisted oak. "Come take a look at this."

They joined him quickly, Scully registering the urgency inhis voice. He had his flashlight focused on the end of the trunk, where the wood was smooth and flat. Not broken, but clearly sawed.

"Someone blocked the road intentionally," Scully said, amazed.

Mulder crouched beside the base. "Look Scully, in the dirt back here, it looks as if the tree were dragged over." He turned purposefully toward the vehicle. "Let's take the truck, go back and use one of those other roads."

"Did you two want to walk there?" Dennis offered. "It'll take me at least half an hour to drive it, but you two can investigate the kennel during that time. Sara and I can pick you up."

Mulder turned back to eye him cautiously. Scully knew Mulder didn't fully trust Dennis yet, probably never would. She could almost hear the suspicions dancing through his mind, wondering if Dennis was manipulating them into a trap.

Suddenly, his gaze extended beyond Dennis. Mulder turned off his flashlight and reached into the truck as well to extinguish the headlights. Dennis followed his lead, turning off his light, leaving the full moon as the only light source. Scully swung around toward the kennel to see what had alerted her partner.

Headlights beamed skyward before a car crested over a far hill. The engine could barely be discerned over the wind through the tall grass. The automobile disappeared from view as it dipped into the valley.

"It's going to the kennel," Dennis whispered.

Scully didn't have the heart to point out to Dennis that the distant truck was out of hearing distance. She gave her partner a warning look when it looked as if he was about to say something sarcastic. His shoulders twitched a small shrug. "Ten minutes is outside of shouting distance." Mulder's observation would be deemed innocuous by anyone but Scully.

Well, Scully thought, there'd be no stopping Mulder from walking there now. Too bad she wasn't wearing hiking boots. She grabbed her partner's arm before he became too distracted. "Wait,"she hissed, pulling her cellular phone from her pocket.

"Dennis?" Sara interrupted. Scully noticed the student had finally left the confines of the truck. "I think the right front tire is losing air."

They all looked down at it simultaneously. Yes, she noted, the tire was very flat. Scully was not a mechanic, but she suspected the reason it had deflated was the thin spike deeply embedded in the rubber. She glanced around on the road, spotting for the first time the glints of rusted metal sporadically littered across the ground. Her throat went dry. It was lucky they hadn't lost more than one tire.

Suddenly a loud shot sounded through the night. Scully andMulder ducked in unison, their hands automatically covering their weapons. Dennis swung around, looking for the source. 

"It came from the kennels," Scully stated, glancing at Mulder for confirmation. As he nodded, she handed Dennis her cell phone. "Here, Mulder's on speed dial number one. If you don't hear from us in half an hour, call 911." She turned back toward her partner to find that he had already started off. Irritating, impulsive, irksome man. Someday, she'd have to handcuff him to her side to keep an eye on him. Well, she wasn't going to let his impatience make her careless.

"Dana, can I help?" Dennis asked as she checked the gun at her back. "Other than phone duty and changing the truck tire."

She smiled at him; college seemed like yesterday and eons ago at the same time when Dennis was around. She dropped the penlight into a convenient pocket. "You can give me a hand over those rocks. These shoes aren't the best for climbing."

He nodded. "Past this is smoother ground. Most of these rocks were placed here to retard erosion." Dennis walked her to the choppy wall of stones. "If the set-up for all of these kennels is the same, it's like a cross, two kennel rows coming off a long hallway. On both ends of the hallway are offices. The front one is set up to be a reception and living area, and the back one for records and workspace."

Scully nodded, visually inspecting the rocks for handholds. And she saw shoes. Looking up, she saw Mulder waiting, his suit showing patches of dirt from his climb. 

He reached a long arm down. "Hurry, Scully."

She accepted an easy boost from Dennis, catching Mulder's hand. Her partner pulled her smoothly to the top of the ridge, placing a steadying grip on her elbow. She tugged away as soon as she found her footing. Dennis was right, the rest of the distance was meadows, and she turned back to signal him that all was fine.

Pulling out a penlight, Scully saw Mulder was already jogging through the grass. His long stride and more practical shoes allowed him to surge ahead. And, despite the full moon lighting their way, Scully soon lost sight of him. She just hoped he would slow once he arrived at the kennels. Frankly, she wasn't in the mood to play catch-up and patch-up.

As she neared the complex, Mulder was still out of sight. The kennels did look like a cross, or an X from this angle of approach. Where was he? A car was in the large paved driveway, and Scully moved toward it to obtain a license or identification number.

A flashlight danced around the back room of the complex, and Scully ducked, hoping the person did not observe her. She pulled out her gun and creeped up the front steps to the porch. Still no sign of her partner. Mulder definitely wasn't the person at the rear of the complex with the careless flashlight.

Scully looked down at the door. Someone had removed the padlock by shooting it. The mark appeared fresh, and she guessed that had been the source of the earlier gunshot. She clicked the safety off her Sig and started her countdown to push into the front office.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Mulder tugged her sharply into the front room. Her heart pounding, Scully glared at him to hide how much he had frightened her. It only resulted in one of his unrepentant grins. Hell, Mulder, she thought, hoping he could read her mind, how happy would you be if I had shot you?

The room was empty except for a decrepit couch, which looked as if it should have been the centerpiece of her last motel room. The entrance was in line with the door leading to the kennels.

Time to remind her partner that they were a team. Scully put her back against the wall next to the rear door, keeping her pistol at the ready. They were probably being overcautious. On the other hand, they had seven dead people and an unknown person with a gun. She motioned for Mulder to circle around to the rear of the complex. For a brief moment, she thought he would balk.

He didn't, finally pulling out his weapon. He moved quietly out the main entrance. She'd probably hear an opinion about her stubbornness when they were finished. But that was later.

Holding her breath, Scully slowly turned the doorknob, grateful when it didn't squeak. She carefully cracked the door open, noting the solid doorframe. If the rear office had the same door, it'd be difficult to kick open.

Scully tightened her grip on her weapon, a corner of her mind grateful that her hand was steady. It usually was; her nervousness never transmitted through her body until afterwards.

The hallway was dark. What a surprise, she thought wryly. Someday, she'd convince Mulder to chase a lead when the sun was up. The doorway provided good cover if she wanted to stay cornered for the rest of the night, but that wasn't the goal.

Risking a peek out, she had to amend her dislike of the shadows. In light, her hair would have screamed out "shoot here!" The night granted safety by dampening the red to a muted grey. 

The two short side passages were open doorways to empty kennels, still ripe with the smell of dogs. Through the chainlink fencing, Scully detected the shuffle that was Mulder hidden in the rustle of wind and grass. The long hallway itself was quiet, but she could hear the sounds of someone searching the far room. 

The door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar. Good thing, she wouldn't make a fool of herself failing to kick her way through the solid wood. The flicker of a waving flashlight sent bursts of light through the crack.

A low staccato of a growl caught her hearing, and their quarry abruptly stopped his search. A click echoed unnaturally loud over her own rapid breathing. It was the distinct sound of a pistol safety being disengaged.

Scully took a deep breath and reevaluated, hoping her partner would pause and do the same. They had certainly lost the element of surprise, though it was impossible to deduce which direction he expected them to enter the room. 

Well, sitting on her hands wouldn't help matters. She had the approach to the front door, so procedure dictated that the initial confrontation was hers.

Scully broke cover, racing next to the wall toward the next kennel group. The heels of her shoes were quiet, but unfortunately not silent against the cement floor. Halfway there, the sound of breaking glass made her duck instinctively, although the source was the end room.

"Freeze!" she heard Mulder shout. "Federal Agent!" A shot followed, and Scully knew from years together in the field and time together at the firing range that the gun was not Mulder's.

Damn him! He had rushed it, his overprotective attitude trying to save her the risk. Scully swiftly covered the remainder of the distance, kicking open the door. Her eyes centered immediately on the large man turning away from the broken window, a large desk between them.

"Halt! Federal Agent!" she echoed Mulder. "Lay down your gun!"

The man didn't obey, but that was hardly a shock. Her life wasn't exactly full of obedient men. He dropped behind the desk, his gun swinging around toward her. 

Scully didn't hesitate and rolled, their guns firing simultaneously. Her shot shattered a piece of glass from the window, while his bullet gouged the wall behind her as she tumbled against a cabinet. Breathing heavily, she corrected and scrambled behind some wooden cupboards. 

The man fired again, and another bullet dug through the aged pine. Scully ignored its final resting place, as long as it wasn't in her flesh. She glanced swiftly around to look for the another piece of furniture large enough to provide some cover. As another bullet dug through the cabinet nearby, she realized she was pinned down.

The back door flew open. Scully heard it thump hard against the stranger. The sound of a gun sliding across the floor caused a surge of relief to sweep through her. Mulder. Not precisely the recommended method for disarming someone, but since it worked, she wouldn't argue. It was followed by the thump of body against body and another weapon clattering on the ground.

"Mercury, go get it!" she heard the man shout over the sounds of the men crashing against the metal file cabinets and empty shelves.

Scully leaped to her feet to cover her partner. Hell Mulder, she thought uncharitably, if he lost another gun-- A motion to her left tugged the edge of her vision, and she swung her pistol around, twisting her body right.

The jaws of a large black dog barely missed her face. The teeth snagged her coat instead, the momentum dragging her over a fallen chair. Her right arm hit the edge of a cabinet, pain shooting up through her shoulder.

Scully fought not to imitate Mulder's loss of a weapon as she rolled, trying vainly to control her final location. The dog's grip on her coat loosened, and Scully knew it would attempt to bite her again. She managed to flail an elbow around and knock it in the soft spot under the chin. The dog leaped away from her, sending her sprawling in a painful demonstration of action-reaction physics. 

Her right hand slammed against the hardwood floor, sending another jolt of agony through her knuckles and up her arm. This time, her grip on her gun did loosen, but she managed to hold it as the pistol discharged. 

Scully knew she was smaller, lighter, than most opponents, especially this monstrosity of a dog. Leverage, training, and intelligence could only go so far in a fight. The pistol was a balancing factor, security blanket and often a lifeline. 

Hair obscuring her vision, she scissored her legs wildly, hoping to intercept the next attack. A rattle of dog tags gave her enough information. She kicked out. Luck and her sensible black heel deflected most of the dog's attack, but the jaws closed down on her foot, twisting her ankle painfully as they did. 

Although her shoe provided protection, the fangs drew blood, and the pain was enough for Scully to lash out re-actively with her opposite leg. She connected hard with the dog's chest, digging a heel between ribs, and it released her.

Sprawled on the floor, hair barely cleared from her eyes, Scully and the dog locked gazes, blue to brown. Beyond the dog's panting and the roar of her blood through her head, she barely registered the sounds of Mulder and his opponent struggling, punching, grunting and wrestling. 

Continuing to stare at the animal, Scully tried to twist onto her side, positioning herself to move more quickly. She attempted to guess when the dog was going to pounce, but it was impossible. She had seen pictures of dog maulings, not just from this case, and struggled not to concentrate on the matchup.

Her right arm was numb, the nerves dead, useless except to retain her fragile hold on her weapon. When she began to transfer the gun to her left hand, the dog growled, deep and long. 

Scully froze. Stalemate? With a dog? If she weren't so tense, she would have laughed. It was unfortunate she didn't wear spiked heels; that last desperate kick would have given the animal a pneumothorax. 

Suddenly, the dog crouched, and Scully completed the transfer of her weapon to her good hand, never breaking eye contact. Her aim would be atrocious, but at point blank range, she could hit that gigantic of a dog blindfolded.

As she brought the pistol around, the dog lunged sideways behind a cabinet. There was a loud crash, and Scully scrambled back ungracefully, jerking her gun back and forth, trying to cover herself from either side or from a leap over the piece of furniture. It seemed like forever, but she came to an ungainly stop against the wall, wedged between the open door and an old filing cabinet. The sudden silence was oppressive. Mulder, she thought, smashing down a wave of panic.

Stop, she mentally scolded herself, you're no good to anyone dead. Left arm trembling, unaccustomed to bearing a weapon without the right for any period of time, Scully struggled to her knees. She caught sight of the man ducking quickly through the back door. He gave a low double whistle and the dog bounded over the cabinet, clearing it by several feet before racing out the door.

She opened her mouth with a vague notion of trying to detain him, when he turned back. Scully caught the gleam of moonlight on metal before she dove again for cover. She didn't bother firing her gun left-handed as she tumbled down. It would be a waste of a bullet.

No shot was fired in return. The man's footsteps pounded away, and Scully soon heard a car door slam and an engine start. She was divided between going after him and finding Mulder, but the squeal of tires made the decision for her.

Scully pushed wearily to her knees, the adrenaline evaporating. I hate this job, a traitorous portion of her mind whined, not fully meaning it. The rest of her screamed to check on Mulder.

A low groan from behind the desk relieved much of her fear for her partner and reduced it to a manageable worry. She fought down the desire to run to him. Do it by the book, Dana, she scolded, pulling herself to her feet for what felt like the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Agony shot up her leg as she rested too much weight on the injured ankle. The numbness of her right hand had decreased to a painful tingle, but sufficiently manageable to hold a gun and pull a trigger.

Mulder was blinking and rubbing the side of his head. Even in the moon's dim light, Scully could see he'd have a bruise over his right cheek. But he'd live. 

She limped away from him to perform a room check, shifting her pistol to her right hand. She swiftly surveyed the room in phases. Mulder's gun had skidded into a far corner. The hallway was clear, the shadows behind furniture empty of threat. 

The field behind the facility was quiet. Scully closed and secured the back door. Her right arm protested the uncomfortable angle as she holstered her gun.

Mulder was struggling to sit when she finally returned to him. Kneeling beside him, she followed her visual survey of his injuries with her hands. He had a growing goose egg at the base of his skull, and he winced away from her when she applied pressure over his ribs at the midclavicular line. Otherwise, he shook her off impatiently. 

He met her concerned gaze with one of his own. "The dog," he questioned.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she assured him, tucking her injured foot away from him. She hoped he hadn't witnessed her limping around the room. "Why'd you break procedure?"

He grabbed at her right hand to examine the scraped knuckles. "Calculated risk, Scully."

She almost rolled her eyes at that. Mulder rarely calculated, impulsive, frustrating man that he was. She surreptitiously tested her twisted ankle. Her partner caught the motion and leaned forward.

But Scully stopped him. "Did you get a good look at him?" she inquired tightly to distract him. "What do you think he was looking for?"

Mulder blinked at the two disparate questions and didn't answer either of them. When it was apparent to both of them that she wasn't going to allow him to examine her foot, he released her hand and stood up.

"Your pistol is under the corner table," she informed him. Waiting until he turned away to search for it, she hoisted herself up, careful to keep her weight on her uninjured ankle.

Along with his gun, Mulder found a light switch. The room was soon bathed in a sickly, yellow glow. He opened the drawers of the filing cabinets, but they were empty. 

They explored the rest of the room silently. Papers strewn on the floor were blank or cryptic, but Mulder gathered all of them. Scully searched the desk, but it was also empty except for a few stray kibbles of dog food. She pocketed them.

As Mulder made a final circuit of the room, they could hear the sounds of approaching sirens. Dennis must have called for assistance after hearing the gunshots.

Scully rested a hip against the nearest surface. The knowledge that they would have to give statements exhausted her. They would also have to fill out paperwork at the Bureau, though at least not tonight. Looking down at the blood on her throbbing foot, she almost wished she had switched places with Mulder and tackled the man. She'd need rabies prophylaxis, she thought, wanting to hit someone, throw something or simply throw up.

I hate this job, repeated the rebellious portion of her mind, perhaps with a little more emphasis than previously. She wondered briefly what it would take to switch careers and become a family physician in a generic suburban location. Too late for that. An older sister and a hazy abduction too late. 

A few dozen or more government conspiracies too late.

Dana Scully sighed, caught between feeling cursed and blessed, watching her partner circle the room. 

An Agent Fox Mulder too late.


	7. Vallejo 4:19AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While I'm sure neither Mulder nor Scully could pick Andy out of a lineup at the end of the case, I admit a fondness for Andy. But language Andy, language! It's not good to swear so much in a customer relations job...

Black Oak Inn  
Vallejo, California  
October 25, 1996  
4:19 AM

Coriander Dunham traced around her latest doodle. The original message on the page was obscured by her other late night drawings. Mr. Ramirez had told her to watch out for friends of Dr. Dennison, but that had been at the start of her shift. Looks like they weren't coming after all. This Murphy and Scarlett couple. Or something like that; she had nodded more than listened.

She tried not to look bored, fiddling with her nametag which proclaimed 'Coriander' instead of Andy like she preferred. Graveyard front desk duty seemed to go on forever. Nothing ever happened. 

Not like the last motel she worked at in Richmond. That place had action. And the security man was someone to talk to at night. Course, once her parents discovered she working at a motel that rented rooms by the hour, she was combing want ads that afternoon. Shit. How did they expect her pay her way through community college if they raised a stink about the good-paying jobs? Not rocket scientists, her folks.

Where'd she put her magazine? Piece of crap. The horoscope had said that October would bring excitement. Andy was sure that didn't mean failing her bonehead English class, but that was all that happened. She should have kept that job at Motel L'Amour; she could have lied to Mom, and Dad never really gave a fuck unless it was food or sports.

A car pulling around in the hotel's entrance circle caught her attention. A police car! Finally, Andy thought, something going on. It was almost like a flashback to that last motel job, except that this police car had its lights and sirens off. It stopped in line with the front door.

And a god climbed out. 

Okay exaggeration. But only by a hair. And only because a god wouldn't look that tired. Otherwise he was handsome, tall. Andy could run her hands all over that bod. She could see that in spite his long trench coat. Good taste in clothes underneath, no matter how much pressing they needed. 

Definitely not the type of guy you typically spotted getting out from the back seat of a police car. No, this guy was like sugar money, and Andy wouldn't object to climbing his pole. Definitely, stud service city.

The man circled to the other side of the car and opened the other rear door. He bent over until Andy could only the smallest bit of his dark hair over the car's roof. She could run her hands through that too. 

Andy ripped off her page of late night doodles and tossed it in the trash without taking her eyes off her fantasy man. He was talking to someone.

And talking.

And talking. Goddamn it! Finish already, so she could lay her eyes on him again.

He stood abruptly, appearing frustrated. And saw her staring at him. Oh, shit. Andy couldn't hold the intense gaze, no matter how curious she was. She ducked her head and fiddled nervously with her pen. Finally, she snuck a peek. Her hero leaned into the car more purposefully and surfaced with a woman in his arms.

Just her fuckin' luck, she thought, realizing her chin was hanging down below her waist. She snapped it shut, feeling cheated. Her ex-fantasy man carried the petite redhead carefully. 

All the good ones were taken. Taken or gay. So much for that damn excitement she had been waiting for. Waste of a fuckin' month. Andy threw the offending magazine into the battered magazine rack, as her 'excitement' for the month nudged through the front door. 

Too damn bad, too. Her towering god was more delicious close up. Unfortunately, the woman he cradled was attractive. Andy touched her curls self-consciously; the woman's red hair was a softer, more sophisticated tone than her own. Maybe she should try a darker shade next time.

Not the standard beauty, but Andy grudgingly admitted the woman was a different sort of dazzling. Despite the wrinkled pantsuit and left ankle encased in a neat bandage, she had a refined grace. 

Andy slid off her stool as the police car pulled away from the front of the motel. "Can I help you?" she asked, realizing they had no luggage. Now, in the Motel L'Amour, that was a common situation, but Mr. Ramirez ran a respectable establishment. No hourly rates.

The man shifted his burden easily. "We're acquaintances of Dr. Dennison," he said. "Fox Mulder and Dana Scully."

Her jaw dropped again. Oh shit. The Murphy and Scarlett she had been told about. She tossed the key she had originally selected and grabbed another.

"Yeah, Mr. Ramirez said to expect you." Though not at four in the morning. Andy stared at them accusingly "Here's the best in the house and don't sweat the cost. That's been prearranged." She dropped the key onto the counter and tilted her head toward the elevators. "Sixth floor. Penthouse. Honeymoon suite."

The woman, Dana Scully, started shaking, and it took Andy a moment to realize she was trying to hide laughter. It was then that Andy noticed the bag she was carrying. Not the usual piece of luggage, just a large paper sack. Mr. Mulder hadn't moved from his position in front of the counter, but his lips were twisted into a wry grin. What was so fuckin' hilarious?

Mr. Mulder reached out to secure the key without tilting his wife? fiance? girlfriend? precariously. "The honeymoon suite will be fine," he said, and Andy noted that the woman had stopped smiling and was giving him a doubtful look. "And I will take the connecting room or any other room on the sixth floor."

Other room? Andy stared at them, but the man was unperturbed. "Oh," she said intelligently. "Yes, well, yes. Um, I do have a room next door, not connecting but as close as you can get."

"Fine."

She grabbed the appropriate key and handed it over. "601 and 603." Would she see him again? Her next shift wasn't until Saturday night. "Do you need a wake up call?"

Although the question was directed at Mr. Mulder, it was the woman who responded, shaking her head firmly. Andy felt like she could dissolve under the full intensity of those blue eyes. "Thank you, no." The voice was calm but determined.

The man nodded, and Andy watched him move toward the elevator. Neither looked back at her. What she wouldn't give--

She cut off the thought and meandered over to the magazine rack. Pulling out the one on top, Andy smiled. There were still a couple more days in the month. Maybe something exciting would happen at Jake's party tomorrow.

****************************

Mulder pushed the elevator button for the sixth floor. As he had expected, Scully's resistance had faded away. He felt her head rest against his shoulder, a few strands of hair tickling his nose. Her breathing deepened, falling asleep, her tension evaporating away. Nothing like a potent mixture of sleep deprivation, pain medications and multiple injections to take an edge off his partner. 

He liked her edges, as he appreciated most aspects of her personality, admired her for them. However, after a night fending off mysterious, trigger-happy opponents and their vicious dogs, followed by hours speaking with local law enforcement at the nearest Bay Area hospital, the last thing he wanted to do was argue with Scully.

But she had adamantly rejected his initial offer to carry her into the hotel. Possibly, she didn't want to be lifted in front of that young police officer, despite being saddled with uncomfortable crutches and an injured arm. It still pained her, though she never specifically said as much. 

Yet Mulder seldom played fair, especially when his partner's welfare was at stake. He had persisted, refusing to move away, so Scully couldn't exit the police car unless it was with his support. He had intentionally left the crutches in the back seat. If she  
continued to need support tomorrow, they'd make arrangements.

Scully's undergraduate friend, Dr. Dennison, had volunteered to bring their rental car and luggage to the hotel before noon. Since the back road to the kennel had been blocked, the paramedics had been dispatched from the other side of the hills, the Bay Area instead of the Sacramento Valley. The Vallejo hospital where they received medical treatment was further from the abandoned kennels as a crow flies, but, as an ambulance drives, it was much closer.

The elevator opened onto a long, bright hallway, carpeted with a chaotic floral pattern. Mulder felt his partner stir and raise her head. Scully was silent as his long strides carried them to the end of the hall. Room 601.

Mulder tried to insert the key into the lock, but with Scully blocking his view, it was difficult. Scully rescued him by grabbing the key from his grasp and unlocking the door. It swung open to reveal a spacious, luxurious area.

"You can put me down now, Mulder." Her voice was soft, weary. Far away.

He would have, but Mulder was too busy gawking around them. The suite was teeming with plants and mirrors. The front room was better furnished than Scully's apartment, with round couches and a solid oak dining table, unlit candles set atop it. Taking a few steps forward, Mulder moved out of the way so Scully could reach past him to shut the door. From the new vantage point, he could see the large, circular canopy bed.

"Mulder?"

He rushed her over to the bed. "Sorry, Scully," he remarked, placing her carefully on the opulent bedspread. She rested against the padded headboard, her eyes closing. Mulder slid the paper bag from her loosened grip.

Until their rental car and luggage were delivered, they were improvising. Mulder opened the sack, pulling out a smaller plastic one. Another trip to an all night grocery store provided general supplies, including a disposable razor for him. Fortunately, 24-hour stores were the rule than the exception in California. 

The two pairs of blue hospital scrubs were on unofficial loan, appropriated by a sympathetic nurse. Mulder tucked one pair under his arm, hoping he hadn't mixed up the sizes. 

The X-files division was earning the dubious distinction of most days in a hospital by either member of the team. Mulder's one year tally of hospital stays probably surpassed the entire New York Field Office. There was an office pool at headquarters betting on what date Mr. and Mrs. Spooky would have received medical attention in all fifty states. It was an accomplishment Mulder planned to skip.

"That man tonight was wearing a suit," Scully said, opening her eyes just as he thought she might be asleep.

"Not a garden variety thug," he answered, dropping the other set of scrubs in her lap. "It's in our X-file job description. All gun-toting assailants must wear suit and tie. To be excluded from the dress code, attackers must be able to use paranormal techniques."

She grimaced. Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she looked up at him. "If nothing else, Mulder, we discovered tonight that someone is willing to kill a federal agent for this case."

"If we believe Brants was murdered because of his involvement, then we already knew that," he pointed out. "And that dog was not trained to 'contain.'" Mulder was proud how calm his voice sounded. "Just as my opponent was trying to murder me, that dog would have killed you."

His partner nodded. "There was something unnerving about the entire situation. When we were staring into each other's eyes, I almost felt the dog was thinking, planning, speculating." Scully shrugged. "It was silly, I know."

She stood up slowly, bypassing his offer of assistance with a stubborn shake of her head. She limped into the bathroom, shedding her coat along the way. It was a sign of her fatigue that she draped the garment over a chair instead placing it on a hanger.

Although he had received a series of x-rays and a complete physical exam, Scully was the one subjected to the worst of the evening's hospital visit. Mulder had been prohibited from Scully's exam room by Scully herself. 

However, a few questions and smiles to the right person had gained him the information he sought. Her injuries themselves were not serious, scraped knuckles, bruises, twisted ankle, a few pulled muscles, and a minor dog bite. The medical controversy had been over the necessity of treatment for possible exposure to rabies.

Since the animal's rabies status was unknown, prophylactic rabies injections were deemed necessary. Mulder suspected the dog had been vaccinated; no one invested so much time training an animal to leave it susceptible. But like the physicians, he was unwilling to risk the consequences to his partner. She had received a standard series of rabies antibodies, four injections in the calf above the wound and three in the buttocks. Her rabies immunization shot had been in the opposite shoulder. 

Scully hadn't mentioned it, but Mulder knew she had to have four additional vaccinations on specific days. Somewhere, hidden in her purse or coat, was an icepack, four rabies vaccine vials and matching syringes. Through the closed bathroom door, he could hear running water and moved to search the pockets of her coat. He found the vaccines easily, along with a few pieces of dog food. 

The food pricked at his memory, but he couldn't reason why. Mulder fingered the bits of food absently as he walked to the front room of the suite, looking for a refrigerator. He found one in the small kitchen. Placing the vaccines on the top shelf, next to a bottle of champagne, he began transferring the dog food from hand to hand, his mind shuffling through different aspects of the case.

Digging through his own coat pockets, Mulder found an extra evidence bag and carefully enclosed the food. His mind replayed the two crime scenes he had visited during the afternoon. He also mentally flipped through the photographs from the case folder. He rotated images in his mind, considering them at random, then with more purpose.

Scully emerged from the bathroom "Mulder?"

He looked up, startled. He met her puzzled gaze and realized that in his introspection, he had somehow settled on the corner of her bed, if there actually existed a corner on a round mattress. He had also somehow removed his coat and changed his dress shirt to the cotton scrubs. 

Although Mulder could remember minuscule details on every picture from the case, he didn't recall undressing. He must have been on automatic. At least he hadn't absently changed his pants as well. Sparing the briefest moment to be grateful that Scully hadn't caught him with his pants down, literally, he waved the evidence bag at her.

She crossed the room slowly, but her gait was smoother than her first trip through the hotel room. "Thanks, Mulder, but I'm not hungry."

Mulder suppressed a smile; Scully must be feeling better if her humor was making an appearance. "These were in your pocket. Did you find them at the kennel?"

"You went through my pockets?" She looked anything but happy at the idea, and Mulder suddenly recalled he wasn't supposed to know about the vaccinations.

He gave her his best smile as a distraction. "Scully, this is the same dog food used by the fourth victim, Glory Peterson. It was spilled all over the floor at the crime scene."

"We haven't visited the Peterson site yet." 

"It was in the photographs. It might also have been in the stables of Dr. Teresa Chavez. There's one picture I would need to examine more closely to verify it." He tucked the bag into his stack of clothes on the bed. "We need to run these through lab for extraneous substances."

"Mulder, many different dog foods have similar shapes, and even if you found the same diet at every attack site, it doesn't necessarily indicate anything." She sat next to him on the bed. "Most of the animal attack victims worked on this mystery project involving dogs. It's not uncommon for people to obtain resources from their worksite."

"I'm not talking about a teenager working at a pizza parlor."

"Neither am I," she replied. "There's no harm in having that analyzed at the lab. But as you informed me earlier, if this is a situation of poisoned dog food causing animal rampages, you'd have a lot of maimed people. Not just seven. Or five."

She crawled under the covers and lay back. "And I can't believe we're arguing about this at four in the morning. Let's review all of this in the morning. Good night, Mulder."

"But Scully--" He was tempted to point out that it wasn't the first time they discussed a case through the night, but he stopped himself as he realized that those situations were often his talking and Scully nodding off, sometimes her head coming to a rest against his shoulder.

"Good night, Mulder," she repeated more firmly, pulling the comforter up to her neck. Abruptly, she sat up and poked him hard in the arm. "And no running off without me," she demanded. "Right now, you have no case file, no transportation until noon, and, contrary to your belief, no solid lead."

"Ah, but I do have you," he replied with a grin.

Scully wilted back onto the bed. "Broken and cranky." 

Mulder stood, thinking he would take his partner any way she came. He said, "And the difference is?"

She watched him with narrowed eyes. "How did you know about the rabies vaccinations?"

"A good agent never reveals his sources." He leaned back to straighten her blankets. He could see her pain medications pulling her back to drowsiness. "Get some sleep, Scully. I'm going to survey your cable channels."


	8. Vallejo 8:58AM

The persistent buzzing of the alarm clock was an obnoxious awakening for Special Agent Dana Scully. Slapping at the nightstand blindly, she silenced it. She hadn't set it last night, so it was likely a remnant from the room's prior occupants. Pulling her arm back into her blanket sanctuary, she curled up into a tighter ball. Based on the trip history, it was almost predictable that she'd have the misfortune to follow the only newlywed couple in the world who used an alarm clock on their honeymoon. 

An irritating corner of her mind suggested she check the time, but Scully was reluctant. If it was past noon, she would be forced to waken officially. She wanted to sleep through the day, possibly through the rest of the month.

But the voice continued to pester her, and Scully surrendered, peeking through her covers at the numbers. Nine o'clock. Another night with less than five hours of sleep. Scully pulled the blanket more firmly over her head. Well, she resolved, she was going to get at least five today if it killed her. The room was silent as if agreeing with her decision.

Too silent. Scully sat up, her right shoulder protesting the sudden movement with an angry twinge. The door to the front room of the suite was firmly closed, and she exchanged gazes with an exhausted reflection of herself. 

No television sounds. Mulder must have retired to his own room after all. Or fallen asleep on the couch. Settling down in the sheets again, Scully squeezed her eyes shut.

Or left to follow his own hazy leads without her.

Damn it. She refused to open her eyes. If Mulder abandoned her again, let him go and get his own series of rabies injections. If he got mauled by a dog the size of a house, or shot by some nefarious suspect, maybe her partner would finally learn that important teamwork lesson.

Dana Katherine Scully was going to get her beauty sleep, thank you very much. As a physician, she knew the importance of being well rested. And she was intimately familiar with the toll which fatigue could extract from the body and mind. A familiarity born from years of experience.

If Mulder left the hotel without her. . .

She sat up again, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder, the throb of her ankle, the burning of her tired eyes, the extremely disrespectful portion of her mind which was laughing at her. Scully smoothed out her wrinkled scrubs and cautiously stood up. Her ankle felt stiff, but it supported her weight easily.

Looking around the room for the first time, Scully cringed. It was amazing that she could have overlooked the decor last night. Such exceptional investigative talents. She should teach classes in observation instead of pathology at Quantico. 

Everything was so--red. Mirrors alternated with velvets and satins, ranging in hue from a deep pink to dark burgundy. Furniture was predominantly cherry or mahogany. Her own hair fell somewhere in the middle of the color spectrum, both clashing and complementing.

Scully opened the bedroom door and softly padded into the front room in her bare feet. Mulder was sleeping on the couch, his blue scrubs providing a welcome rest for her eyes after the color explosion. Her partner's gun was within arm's reach on the coffee table. She felt a pang of guilt for expecting the worst. After all, last night, he had promised not to disappear. Well, not exactly promised, but it was implied.

She retreated back into the bedroom and closed the door. The bed was no longer a temptation. It was past noon on the east coast, and her internal clock was difficult to reset once she climbed out of bed. Besides, after seeing herself from all angles-something she couldn't avoid with the suite's surfeit of mirrors--Scully felt rumpled. 

She took a mental inventory. No clean clothes, no hairbrush, no cosmetics, no shoes. But she did have that jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, and it was calling her. She smiled.

The bathroom tile was cold, but the heat lamp balanced the chill quickly. Scully twisted on the water. The modern tub was large enough for two or three occupants if she were so inclined. Adding a liberal amount of hotel-supplied bath foam, she cut off that train of thought. It was a frivolous waste of time to ponder who she might invite. 

And whether he might accept.

The bath tub filled quickly as Scully performed the only task she could under the circumstances. She brushed her teeth. Better, she thought, as she shed the blue scrubs, leaving them in a forlorn heap by the door. Sinking into the bubbles, she sighed. The hot water was bliss, made into ecstasy when she turned on the water jets. She rested against the sloped side and closed her eyes, letting the white foam tickle her chin. Bless Dennis for this arrangement.

"Scully?" Mulder's muffled voice startled her through the bathroom door.

"Mulder, I am busy," she called. Relaxing for the first time in the past month, Scully added silently, and if you make a remark about never running your bath, I will *not* be responsible for the consequences.

"Is that a jacuzzi I hear?"

She ruthlessly turned off the jets. "No," she replied once the water stilled. "What do you want, Mulder?"

There was a long pause. Then a teasing, "A bath?"

Purposefully shutting her eyes, Scully refused to answer him. Because he couldn't see her, she allowed herself a full smile at his joke and the fleeting idea of calling his bluff. Reactivating the jets, she reached for the hotel shampoo and dunked her head.

"There's another Animal Assistance facility five miles north from here," Mulder informed her over the sound of the circulating water streams. Business again, hardly surprising. He was the only man she knew who could flip subjects so abruptly. "This one is active. Maybe we can find someone who knew the victims." 

Mulder's cellular phone chirped before Scully could respond. Leaning back against one of the jets, she listened to his side of a muffled conversation. Unable to decipher individual words, she abandoned her efforts to eavesdrop and vigorously massaged shampoo into her hair.

"Scully?"

"Who was it?"

"Agent Chow. The analysis has returned on that knife block. The blood belonged solely to Jennie Brants. There was no evidence of blood from David Brants."

She closed her eyes and considered her partner's news. Why would the murderer replace the knife after killing one victim? "Anything else?"

"Dr. Lambert submitted the final autopsy report on the Brants. No surprises."

There was something; it teased her memory. To locate it, she reviewed the autopsies, wishing she had Mulder's talent for picturing scenes. The stabbing pattern, the angle of entry, the character of the wounds.

"Mulder, there was something odd about the Brants murders,"she finally admitted. "The problem is I can't place it." There was no answer from her partner, but Scully knew he was listening, allowing her to step her idea through. "If you examined each factor individually, there was nothing irregular. However, taken as a whole. . ."

Scully paused again, and again her partner waited. "It was the knife wounds," she told him, analyzing the components of her unease individually. "If you picture the victim's body in two dimensions, the angle of multiple stab wounds radiate out from a single point. Ideally, the length of the murderer's arm can be estimated through extrapolation like a lever around a fulcrum." 

She pushed around some of the rapidly diminishing bubbles. "Realistically, it's garbage. It's an extremely crude estimation with many assumptions. Straight arm, no movement of the pivot point, no movement by the victim."

"And for Brants and his wife?"

"The wounds were irregular, erratic," she explained. "The angle, the pattern, the depth of the wounds were slightly anomalous. Now, a little abnormality in one component is to be expected, but in this case, all three elements failed to conform to a standard multiple stab wound model. And that is extremely rare."

"What if the knife wounds were atypical because the murderer was atypical?" Mulder asked.

Scully could hear the speculation in his voice. The hint of excitement as his mind began to lock pieces of a puzzle together. Never mind that some of the data was not an ideal fit. "Mulder, anyone who murders a Bureau SAC and his wife for an unknown motive is, by definition, atypical. What do you think happened?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Yet."

Before Scully could ask him for more details, or at the very least some of his hypothesis, the doorbell to the suite rang. She heard Mulder pull his gun. How did he clip the holster onto the waist of those flimsy scrubs? Her weapon was in its customary location in the nightstand drawer.

Swiftly rinsing the suds from her hair, Scully silenced the water jets and climbed out of her brief slice of heaven. She could hear Mulder's muffled query but failed to decipher the words. Barely sparing the time to run a drying towel over her skin, she slipped into one of the hotel bathrobes.

Scully cracked the door, but did not detect any evidence of trouble. Hearing the main door to the suite close, she relaxed, but she sat down on the bed within reach of her weapon. Mulder returned to the bedroom bearing a large garment bag. He dropped it next to her.

"The hotel owner, Mr. Ramirez, brought us a change of clothes care of your Dr. Dennison." Mulder unzipped the bag and began searching through the contents. "Your well-connected friend knows a manager of a department store who owes him a favor. Supposedly, he called your mother for your clothing size. How did she know my shirt size, by the way?"

"Mulder, stop groping the clothes. I'm sure Dennis didn't wire them." Scully tugged the garment bag out of his reach. Examining its contents, she handed him a white shirt. "Looks like you'll have to wear your suit again, but here's a tie. More conservative than your usual selection. Couple of pairs of dark socks. Clean underwear." She relinquished the articles of clothing.

He eyed the clothes remaining in the garment bag. "Blatant favoritism, Scully," Mulder said, gathering up his share. "I'm going to take a shower. I don't want to wait for your friend to bring that car. Do you think the hotel owner will drive us to that Animal Assistance kennel? Maybe he"ll loan us something."

Scully raised an unseen eyebrow at Mulder's retreating back. She could have predicted that he would insist upon visiting it. 

Immediately. 

"Hopefully he hasn't seen our record on rental cars," she murmured

****************************


	9. American Canyon 11:16AM

Animal Assistance Kennels  
11:16 AM

Mulder walked slowly up the north wing of the kennel, eyeing the variety of large dogs. Although he was searching each cage for the presence of dog food, all of the bowls were empty. There was nothing to compare to the sample Scully had found. No finicky eaters in this bunch.

The breeds covered the spectrum, mostly muscular working dogs. But each animal resembled the other in their location in the cage, the alert, seated pose, and the way the dogs watched him as he passed. It reminded him of inspecting a military lineup. Tapping his knuckles against the fencing, Mulder failed to get a response.

This kennel was newer, cleaner, than the one they had explored last night. The cages were enclosed with walls of steel instead of wire mesh. One large enclosure contained a black dog which looked suspiciously similar to the one which had attacked Scully. Mulder stopped in front of the gate and read the nametag. Duchess. Not Mercury.

Glancing quickly at the locks on the cages, he reassured himself that the gates were secure and leaned closer. A dog at the end of the row barked twice, but there was no other reaction from Duchess or any of her kennel mates.

Mulder moved down the aisle, trying to locate the animal that had barked, but the noise had echoed off of the cement floor, making it difficult to trace the origin. Each dog watched him as he passed.

He placed his hand against the lock of one of the cages. This time the answering bark was from a dog on the opposite side of the kennel, from the section he had just left. Again, the poor kennel acoustics made it impossible to pinpoint the source. The only movement among the dogs was an occasional, brief tail wag.

Mulder hesitated. The dog in his line of vision had tilted his head, and his short tail gave a quick flash. He couldn't dismiss the eerie feeling that it was somehow laughing at him. He stepped back, deciding against a continuation of the experiment.

Mulder reentered the main hallway where his partner and the kennel manager, Mr. Wharton, were occupied reviewing training procedures. He approached them quietly, careful not to draw too much attention to his presence. When they had initially met the man, Mr. Wharton had been very antagonistic, refusing to allow them to examine the premises until Scully had applied considerable charm and reasoning.

Actually, in this instance, Scully had relied upon charm more than reasoning, but a form of charm he rarely saw her exploit. Charm derived more from appearance than personality. Mr. Wharton had quickly become the newest member of the Dana Scully fan club with one her brief smiles--a smile combined with the whole package. Hell, in her borrowed outfit, Scully was irresistible. At least according to the barely concealed leer on the Wharton's face.

As an ensemble, at a distance, the form-fitting suit appeared the epitome of professionalism. It was a respectable hue, a shade brighter than Scully's usual conservative color choices but darker than royal blue. Broken down into components, however, the clothes featured a freedom of spirit Scully rarely demonstrated in her work attire, and it caught the eye, especially Wharton's.

Mulder followed the man's gaze, though he had already secretly admired his partner at the hotel. Scully's slim skirt fell a number of inches above her knees, revealing much more shapely thigh than her typical rigorous dress code. Although the soft white blouse wasn't exactly flaunting cleavage, it hugged her body suggestively, framed by the form-fitting suit jacket. And the navy hosiery she wore had a subtle seam, rising gracefully from the back of short suede heels to disappear under the hem of her skirt.

Three tiny bandaids decorated Scully's left ankle, marring the otherwise attractive picture. Earlier in the morning, Mulder had surreptitiously watched Scully as she walked around the motel suite, trying to discern a limp, but he had been unsuccessful.

When Scully had raised a warning eyebrow at him, Mulder realized he had also been unsuccessful at hiding his worrying. Any other woman would have assumed the attention was an admiration of her body--which Mulder couldn't fully deny--but not his partner. Even after adding on a wolf whistle, he knew he hadn't fooled her. After years of partnership, she knew him painfully well.

As Wharton spoke, Scully was combing carefully through the kennel's paperwork, failing to notice the attention the manager was lavishing on her legs. Mulder deliberately invaded Scully's personal space to ensure he entered the man's line of sight. It was a macho man maneuver, the kind which usually irked her, but he was willing to absorb her anger if it halted the man's perusal.

Scully raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. The resemblance of that gesture to her early morning warning was comical. However, Mulder refused to regret his action. No way was he going to allow this Wharton asshole undress his partner with his eyes. He pressed a firm hand on the small of her back for extra measure, startled when he felt her weapon hidden there.

With the waistline on that jacket, how could she be packing? He knew she had been losing weight recently, but he hadn't fully registered how much. Looking down into her narrowed blue eyes, he dropped his hand immediately; she must be reading his mind with that uncanny ability she claimed she didn't have.

Okay, he had overstepped the limits. Yet it was impossible to avoid feeling overprotective. With their extensive track record, the roles were more appropriate when reversed, for Scully had more experience protecting him. Mulder tried to apologize for the possessive intrusion with a smile, though it was more of a smirk.

"Go get it, Scully," he muttered just for her ears, unwilling to openly admit any wrongdoing. Mulder deliberately used the attack command from last night to distract her irritation. He knew Scully disliked being fussed over, especially by him, and took a careful step backward.

She nodded, her blue eyes informing him that she'd continue the chastisement verbally at a later time. She turned back to shine a persuasive smile at their host. "Mr. Wharton," she said, handing him back the stack of papers, "thank you for the information. I've always been curious about the training procedures, especially since the dogs learn upwards of 70 commands. "

The man seemed wary, but his pride seemed to cloud his judgement. “There are no better training facilities on the west coast.” When Scully turned up the intensity of her smile, Wharton added, "Whit and May Crawford are both here. Brother and sister team and some of the best trainers in the world."

Without making eye contact with Mulder, Mr. Wharton led them into another wing of the kennels. Mulder hesitated when his partner tapped his arm. Meeting her gaze, he read the question there. She was checking if Whit and May Crawford matched the names on the list from Agent Chow. Mulder shook his head.

Completely missing their exchange, the kennel manager continued to display his tunnel vision as he walked past the numerous cages. Similar to the other wing of the kennel, all of the dogs were sitting in a structured fashion. Mulder could feel their eyes following them as they went by the cages.

Mulder stopped in front of a gate after a few paces. As luck would have it, the cage belonged to another dog which resembled the attack dog, Mercury. "Mr. Wharton," he said, hoping the phrasing and tone of his question wasn't too abrasive but suspecting the man found irritation solely in Mulder's existence. "All of the dogs in the kennel are sitting the same way."

The man barely spared him a glance. "The dogs are in training. They're all under a sit-stay command."

Scully joined Mulder in front of a cage. "How long will they sit this way?" she asked.

"Until the trainer releases them." The manager's tone was distinctly softer when answering Scully. Regardless, he unlocked the far door and held it open for them, checking his watch for emphasis when they didn't immediately follow him.

"It's a beautiful dog," Scully commented, surprising Mulder. She rarely remarked on the aesthetic appeal of a subject. "That black fur seems very full and healthy. All of the dogs in this kennel have gorgeous coats. What do you feed them?"

It required all of Mulder's energy to suppress a chuckle as he realized her goal. The kennel manager drifted back to them. Trust Scully to wrap the silly Mr. Wharton around her finger. Knowing his partner, they'd leave the kennel with the necessary food sample to compare against the one in his pocket.

"Only the very best for Animal Assistance dogs, Agent Scully. It's a specially formulated, protein-rich, highly digestible energy source. Our distributor insists it's top line."

She nodded, gifting the lucky twit with a smile. "My brother has a champion dog, but her coat is nowhere as shiny. Do you think I could purchase a small bag from you? I'd love to see how his dog does on a different diet."

Wharton didn't hesitate. "Of course, Agent Scully. We actually have a surplus of dog food from our last order." He smiled in the general vicinity of her chest.

Before Mulder was aware of the thought, he cut off Wharton's line of vision by stepping into it. Reddening, the kennel manager quickly shuffled back to the door. In response to Mulder's self-satisfied grin, Scully nudged him none-too-gently in the ribs with her elbow as she passed him.

When Mulder moved to follow them, the black dog in the cage gave a low growl, almost inaudible. He froze, exchanging a tight look with Scully as she spun around. They regarded the dog simultaneously. Reading the nametag, Mulder grimaced. Venus. That tied Queequeg in his book for odd dog names.

Venus was wagging her tail enthusiastically but didn't leave her sitting position. It seemed a good time to resume his experiment. Leaning closer to the cage, he hissed, "Venus, go get it!"

Mulder jumped back as Venus charged the fence, barking. The dog thumped her two huge front paws on the gate, raising up to a height almost level with his. She barked again.

Scully stepped in front of him, shrugging off his frantic hand on her shoulder. "Mulder," she explained, "she's wagging her tail."

Mulder refrained from grabbing her again, but he placed a ready hand on his gun. Wagging tails did not guarantee safety.

Wharton had turned back to them. "That one has no control!" he said in frustration. "She's a problem."

Placing her hand cautiously against, but not through, the wire gate, Scully allowed Venus to lick her palm. "From your brochure, I was under the impression that dogs failing training were returned to their puppy foster homes. Your organization probably has an extensive waiting list of people begging for program 'failures.'"

"We invested more time, effort and money into selected animals." the man tried to explain. "Venus is one of them, but over the past weeks, she's rebelled. Her training has gone to hell." The manager glared at the dog as she barked at him. "The hope is that these specific canines can be placed in unique environments. A couple of sponsors pay large sums of money. Quite frankly, the sale of three such dogs support the operations of one kennel for an entire year."

Venus tapped her nose on the lock to her cage and gave a brief bark. She met Mulder's gaze then pressed her nose against the lock again. Mulder tugged his partner away from the cage. "Who buys them?" he asked, watching as Venus returned to her previous position deeper in the cage.

"Actually, I don't know." The man met Mulder's doubtful gaze without flinching. "The dogs go through our facility in Oakland." Mr. Wharton shrugged. "It's not just one individual who purchases them, if that's your question."

They followed him through a room overloaded with file cabinets and desks. There was one window, and Mulder attempted to guess the level of security. He couldn't detect an alarm system. As he drifted closer to the window, Scully tugged on his sleeve.

"Mulder," she whispered, "we are not coming back here in any unofficial capacity after hours."

Caught again. Mulder capitulated and corrected his course to follow the oblivious Mr. Wharton. "We won't" he answered softly, taking a smug comfort that he could sneak out for a solo visitation without breaking his promise. "Don't feel like a behind-the-scenes tour of the local kennels, Agent Scully?".

"Don't feel like a behind-the-bars tour of the local jail," Scully responded as they trailed their host once again.

Compared to the office, the final room they entered was spacious. Two dogs were matched with two humans. The man wore nondescript jeans and cotton t-shirt, while his sister was squeezed into a skimpy pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse with large, strategic holes around her slender midriff.

The introductions were swift. Whit Crawford seemed indifferent to the entire group and patted the closest dog. On the other hand, his sister sized them up slowly, taking a lingering time over Mulder. The woman adjusted her blouse, exposing more skin through the gaps in the fabric if that were possible, Mulder refrained from meeting Scully's gaze, to keep from laughing. "Kennel work must be lonely with all the attention we are receiving," he murmured.

Wharton motioned them to the side of the room as the Crawford pair worked with the animals. Mulder noted the series of subtle hand commands which supplemented the verbal ones. The two yellow Labrador Retrievers interacted with various props, ringing doorbells, grabbing letters from the table with their mouths, opening refrigerator doors.

Mulder leaned closer to whisper in his partner's ear. "Now, I'd pay good money for a dog to fetch drinks during playoffs."

Scully crossed her arms in front of her, not bothering to respond to Mulder's words beyond a slight twitch of her lips.

They continued to observe the training session, the dogs obeying each command without difficulties. Mulder began memorizing the hand motions and associated actions.

"Or the remote," he added, leaning against the wall as the idea flickered into his head. His reward was another smothered smile.

Then Scully did smile, a warm flash of one. "Or one of those unclaimed videos from the drawer in your apartment," she offered.

Mulder grinned, momentarily distracted from trying to decipher the trainers' hand signals. "Not *during* playoffs, Scully." He infused his words with an offended tone.

After one of the dogs picked up the receiver of a telephone and brought it to May Crawford, the long-legged trainer winked at Mulder. "So what do you think?" she drawled, tilting a hip at him.

"Will they follow my commands?" he asked, raising his voice loud enough for the other trainer to hear.

"Of course, silly," she purred, sauntering smoothly into his personal space. Mulder realized that Scully had been standing just as close to him on the other side without it raising the same kind of alarms as May's action.

May pursed sensuous lips and tilted her head, her attention completely focused on Mulder. "It wouldn't make any sense to train a bunch of animals who would be useless to anyone else but us."

"Can I try?" Mulder asked May to distract her almost losing his train of thought as the woman licked her lips.

May leaned forward, a few curls of brown hair falling into her eyes which were level with his. "Try?" she breathed, and he heard Scully give a muffled snort. "The dog?"

"Yes, the dog," Mulder enunciated, raising his voice to include the woman's brother. Whit Crawford appeared indifferent to both the idea and his sister's actions.

May pouted. There was no other way to describe it. "Go ahead, Whit. Release Sunshine," she relented.

The trainer motioned the other dog to sit before snapping his fingers at the chosen animal. "Sunshine, okay," he said.

The dog scampered in circles around the room as May touched Mulder on the arm. "Sunshine is young," she told him, exchanging the role of seducer for that of instructor. "Her vocabulary is around fifteen words. Standard commands are sit, stay, down, heel, come here, and fetch. She has also graduated to the next level with open the door, telephone, up, leave it, and under. Remember to use a firm voice."

Mulder nodded and began striding toward the back of the room, the upper half of his body grateful for the escape. "Sunshine, heel," he said, proud when the dog obeyed him immediately. Stopping along the rear wall, in the corner furthest from the door, he commanded, "Sunshine, sit. Stay."

Mulder walked back towards his partner, sparing the animal a glance. It stayed. Once he reached Scully, Mulder turned back to Sunshine but carefully placed himself between his partner and the dog. It would have been a better strategy to put distance between himself and Scully. But if the dog attacked, Mulder had no intention of letting it near her.

He could feel Scully tense, guessing his intent. Although, with his back to her, he couldn't see Scully's movements, he knew she was sneaking a hand under the hem of her jacket in case she needed to draw her weapon.

"Sunshine, go get it!" Mulder shouted, bracing himself.

The dog didn't move. Mulder bit down on his disappointment and watched the trainers carefully. Both were frowning, but more from confusion than anger if he read their expression correctly. Mr. Wharton looked at him as if he were crazy.

Time to reconnoiter. Mulder used Mr. Wharton's technique and checked his watch. "Agent Scully and I have a meeting," he said, waiting for his partner to confirm it.

Scully stepped around him and extended a hand to the kennel manager. "Thank you very much for your time," she said. "And thank you for the offer of dog food."

Mr. Wharton nodded. "Yes, I have some in the front office, if you'll follow me." Mulder noticed the man skirted him completely, apparently taking the experiment as proof of a mental imbalance.

Scully gave him one of her polite, soothing smiles to calm him. "By chance, Mr. Wharton, do you have the name of the distributor?" she asked as they exited the room. "If my brother would like to obtain more, it would be very helpful."

Mulder turned to follow his partner, but in the corner of his eye, he saw the sibling trainers exchange an intent glance. Although it could have been anything, a tingling went up his spine, and he paused just outside the door. May caught him watching and adjusted her shirt for his benefit. The sensation of unease grew, and Mulder was unsure if he found the movement sexy or scary. He caught up with Scully in the front office, barely noticing the dogs as he passed through the kennel.

Mr. Wharton was buried in a cabinet. He emerged with a large paper bag. "Like I said before, we have a surplus," he said to Scully. "Had one even before two of our best dogs were stolen."

"Stolen?" Mulder repeated, hoping to draw more information from the man. "When was this?"

Mr. Wharton's gaze skittered off Mulder and anchored solely on Scully. "About two months ago. Two of our best dogs, gone. As you may have read in the pamphlet, Agent Scully, litters are named around general themes. One dog was from Sunshine's litter and the other was a littermate to Venus."

Mulder felt an another tingle race through him, this one more anticipatory than uncomfortable. "What were their names?"

"Windstorm and Mercury."


	10. Walnut Creek 6:35PM

Walnut Creek, California  
6:35 PM

Carolyn Dennison slid open the pantry door and surveyed the selections dismally. Although her nephews were visiting, ordering pizza was not an option. Her husband was due to arrive home soon, bringing along two last minute guests, FBI agents of all people. And, in her personal etiquette book, pizza delivery didn't roll out a red carpet.

Normally, unplanned dinner guests weren't an item of contention between them. Carrie and "Dennis"--especially Dennis--enjoyed their reputation for warm welcomes. Tonight, however, for a reason she couldn't pinpoint, hospitality felt like an imposition. Perhaps her unsettled mood was because one of tonight's guests was Special Agent Dana Scully, one of Michael's old college friends. 

Well, not *old* exactly. Yet certainly only a friend. Michael had emphasized that there was no romantic history between them, and Carrie trusted her husband on that subject. Plus he had been the one to suggest pizza, and she couldn't warp that into a romantic overture no matter how she tried.

Perhaps her reluctance to entertain guests was merely the residuals of a long, difficult day at work. Her clinic patients had been turbulent, bordering on rowdy. It had been tempting to lock herself in the nearest bathroom for a quick crying fit. 

Carrie sighed. Actually, the emotions could probably all be traced to her pregnancy--rampant hormones, trampled ego, morning sickness, the wonderful joys of impending motherhood. After she torpedoed his pizza idea, Michael had been kind enough to suggest dining out, but Carrie had insisted upon scraping together an impromptu meal. 

Home field advantage was essential when meeting the competition. 

Perhaps Dana Scully wasn't officially competition in Michael's mind, but it never hurt to be hold onto advantages. Especially around a pretty red-headed physician. Carrie frowned at the insecure idea, thinking wryly that pregnancy hormones had turned her eyes green with envy..

She rolled the pantry door shut and peeked through the kitchen window into the backyard. Her two nephews were on the patio, tossing a worn baseball back and forth. After a severe scold, Jackson, at twelve years old, had enough sense--or fear of his aunt--to keep the game a safe distance away from Crayon. As far as her nephews were concerned, however, Crayon was a magnet.

Chained next to the garage, the poor Great Dane was lonely, unaccustomed to the lack of attention. David and Jennie Brants had spoiled Crayon immensely. The dog loved affection almost as much as food, and that was a lot; Carrie had already run out of dry food and was now substituting canned. 

But despite the dog's friendly and patient behavior during the past week, neither she nor Michael trusted Crayon fully. True, both of the Brants had died of multiple stab wounds, so the dog wasn't the murderer. However, Michael had shown her Crayon's abnormal lab work and CT scans. Because the Great Dane's increased brain mass matched the postmortems Michael had performed on the other attacking animals, they had exercised extreme caution. She and Michael were meticulously careful about keeping Crayon away from others. 

Carrie pulled out a few pans. Cooking for six was not very different from cooking for four. And with Jackson's entrance into teen years, the boy ate like two extra people anyway. Hopefully, the sight of Jackson inhaling his food wouldn't offend their guests. 

Grabbing the rice pot, Carrie was thankful for the millionth time for her Chinese heritage. Steamed rice and stir-fry made a quick foundation for good eating.

Moving purposefully about the kitchen, Carrie wondered what Dana Scully looked like. Michael had shown her a few pictures, but they had been dated from a decade or so ago. Her husband's undergraduate study partner had been a cute, freckled red-head, resembling someone in high school rather than college. 

Carrie rested a distracted hand on her belly as the wok heated. Almost seven months pregnant and she looked like nine months and felt like nineteen. Michael said Dana had lost some weight, though Carrie couldn’t see how the petite girl of the college pictures could get much skinnier. 

However, Dennis had outright stated that Dana had retained the admirable personality traits which had earned her husband's friendship years ago--Dana Scully was extremely bright, extremely loyal and extremely stubborn. Not necessarily in that order, Michael had added.

Tossing vegetables and meat into the wok, Carrie listened to the comforting sizzle. Her exaggerated stomach rumbled as the smell of onions and garlic infused the kitchen. She inhaled deeply, grateful the aroma didn't make her nauseous. 

While she knew Dana was a medical doctor and an FBI agent, theother guest, Fox Mulder, was a mystery. Her husband had described him as "focused." Although Michael didn't elaborate, Carrie knew the man had a reputation for eccentricity, a belief in the unknown. 

It had been hinted in Mrs. Scully's last Christmas letter to Michael's mother, but nothing had been explicitly stated. From what little she knew of Mrs. Scully, she wasn't an individual to gossip. Carrie also knew that Agent Fox Mulder used his last name like a first name. But, in all fairness, she couldn't count that against him, considering her husband's nickname.

The sound of a car pulling into the garage coincided with the chime of the rice pot. Carrie smiled as she put a lid on her Chinese style beef stew and slipped the two stirfry dishes into the oven to keep warm. Excellent timing that husband of hers.

Michael Dennison entered with only one person in tow, a petite, attractive woman. Dr. Dana Scully's college photographs didn't do her justice was the first impression that skittered across Carrie’s mind. Her fair skin was unmarked by the obvious freckles of her youth, and her movements were an odd combination of caution and decisiveness, as if she had battled the world and won. 

Balancing a thick stack of papers, she was laughing at something Michael had said, but Carrie noticed Agent Scully's observant eyes swiftly scan the house.

Chuckling himself, her husband reached past their guest to grab her wrist and squeeze it. "Carrie, I want you to meet Dana," he said, the warmth in his voice matching his touch. "Dana, this is Carrie, the best spouse in the world."

Blarney stone charmer, Carrie thought, not completely unhappy, as Michael slid his fingers down to caress her palm. She slipped her hand free so she could offer it to their guest. "Welcome. Michael has told me so much about you."

"It's great to finally meet you," the woman responded, shifting her paperwork in order to return the handshake. Her grip was firm and confident like her voice. "Dennis has been glowing in his praise. The only subject he hasn't bragged about has been your cooking. If the aroma in this house is any indication, it's a major omission."

Carrie smiled, relaxing for the first time that day. Judging from Dana Scully's friendly expression, she was no husband-stealer. Never mind that Dana's competition--if she *were* so inclined--was shaped like a blimp. "Flattery gets you seconds," Carrie replied. Small wonder Michael called her 'friend,' despite their lack of communication for many years. "Will your partner, Agent Mulder, be joining us tonight?"

The woman grimaced mildly, though Carrie was unsure how to interpret the response. "Yes, Mulder is at one of the crime scenes. I haven't seen my partner since lunchtime, but he should arrive soon." Agent Scully absently tucked a couple strands of her sun-red hair behind an ear. 

Michael suddenly slapped a hand against the pager at his waist as it hummed at him. Glancing at the number, his pained expression matched his college friend's for a moment. "Damn it. I forgot to swing by the other clinic." He touched Carrie on the arm. "Will it be okay if I abandon you two for a few minutes? They need me to grab some blood samples, but it shouldn't take long." Michael grinned at Agent Scully. "I bet I beat your partner back, Dana."

Carolyn Dennison waved her husband off. "Translated into the workaholic time continuum, 'a few minutes' is twenty minutes minimum, but the food will keep if your appetites will." Carrie tugged on his shirt as he started for the garage. "Since you're going to the clinic, could you grab a bag of dog food? I had to spoil Crayon with canned food this morning."

Michael nodded. "Sure, I'll grab the biggest bag we stock," he answered, looking puzzled. "But I didn't know we had any canned dog food in the house."

"It was in the stuff you brought with Crayon, hidden underneath the pile of dog toys." She glanced over to Agent Scully. "Crayon was a very pampered pooch, Dr. Scully."

Startled, Dana Scully removed her gaze from the report on the top of her paper stack and met Carrie's gaze. If she felt guilty about being distracted by her reports, it didn't show. Unlike Michael, she didn't have a ready blush. 

Carrie gave her a reassuring smile nonetheless; she knew how difficult it was to separate oneself from one's work, especially when one was physically carrying it. "Dr. Scully and I will use your absence to talk about you incessantly," she teased as her husband ducked out to the garage.

Dr. Scully returned her smile. "Please, call me Dana," she said.

************************

As she heard the garage door close, Scully smiled again at Carolyn Dennison. An illogical twinge of envy pulsed through her at Dennis's comfortable, domestic life. Home, family, stable work. One of his veterinary practices was barely a few blocks away from his comfortable house. No mysterious government conspiracies. No paranormal or--more often than Mulder would care to admit--pseudo-paranormal phenomenon. No extraterrestrial influences. 

And no life on the edge of danger.

Scully muffled a sigh. She and Mulder might be resilient now, but realistically they couldn't continue at this pace forever. At this point, they were fortunate they weren't both dead. However, Scully only believed in luck in the most abstract way. 

Although she never discussed the idea with Mulder, she had no doubt that someone, somewhere, was keeping them alive according to an unrecognized agenda. Whether that someone was a shadow government, an extraterrestrial project, an unknown informant, Skinner, or God, Scully did not want to examine too closely. 

All she knew was that she couldn't--wouldn't--live her present life for the next fifty years. At the current speed, fatigue would kill her before a government conspiracy did. Mulder had paranoia and his search for his sister to fuel him. Meanwhile, Scully had only a fading hope in justice. 

That and Mulder.

Once, when she had given him a version of her "cross the line" speech with a how-many-years-in-the-future theme, her partner had responded with choked laughter. At her raised eyebrow, Mulder had pointed out that, fifty years in the future, their enemies could defeat them by hiding his walker or kicking the cane out from under her.

Sometimes, her partner's irreverent sense of humor pushed all the wrong buttons.

Carrie Dennison cleared her throat, drawing Scully's attention back to her surroundings. Lack of sleep was truly beginning to affect her ability to focus, but at least Carrie was kind enough to overlook her lapse. 

She was smoothing down her maternity dress, looking a little uncomfortable and a lot pregnant. "Dana," she said, almost shyly, "I want to thank you for cooperating and leaving your weapon outside. It's a house rule. Even my two brothers, who are police officers obey it." 

Briefly feeling nostalgic about her own brothers, Scully gave Carrie a slight nod. She certainly sympathized with house rules. They prevented Mulder from scattering his sunflower seeds all over her apartment. Well, the rule of using a cup to contain his detritus and the memory of when she wrestled an entire bag of seeds away from him--minus the empty shells he had already dropped on her carpet--and ran it down her garbage disposal.

Abruptly realizing Dennis had her gun in the glove compartment of his truck--removed from easy access--she repressed the momentary twinge of anxiety. Scully covered her worry with a light shrug. "Officially, it's after hours," she answered, readjusting the stack of paperwork again. "And I can understand your discomfort with your nephews visiting. Of course, I haven't spoken to Mulder yet. He may be more difficult to separate from his weapon." Scully had her misgivings about how it might be accomplished, but decided against warning her hostess.

Dennis's wife might have guessed anyway, from the curious gaze Scully intercepted. 

Scully floundered for a decent conversation topic which wouldn't sound too curt. Discarding the few subjects which raced through her head, she settled for silence and a vague smile. 

As Carrie rescued her by peeking into a pot simmering on the stove, Scully set the heavy stack of papers and faxes on the corner of the kitchen counter. Wrestling with the need to read them, she flipped through a couple of pages before replacing them. She had only skimmed the first few pages of the final autopsy report on David and Jennie Brants. Once Dennis had met them at the hotel with their rental car, Mulder had left her at the FBI Concord satellite office to communicate with Agent Chow at the Sacramento Field Office. 

Mulder had surprised her by calling between visits to crime scenes and a visit to the Oakland Animal Assistance facility. He had covered a lot of territory in an afternoon, though he had stranded her at the satellite office until Dennis could pick her up. He had a pathology class to teach at the University teaching hospital, and she assisted. Afterward, they drove to one of his veterinary practices, and Scully had spent a quiet, though productive, few hours reviewing slides and films from the samples Dennis had kept. 

The stack of reports contained many results, most stamped with the words confidential. The Acting Sacramento SAC, Agent Chow, had efficiently scanned and forwarded the additional information to spare them the drive back to Sacramento. Scully also suspected Chow was trying to keep them from crossing paths with Corganman.

Thinking about the express mailings from headquarters lab she had yet to open, Scully sighed. Her hand reached out to grab the first envelope before she remembered her surroundings. Although Carrie's attention was on the stove, Scully suspected Carrie was aware of her struggle with guilt, between work and leisure--all symbolized by a stack of paperwork. Very polite, she scolded herself. Bury yourself in the case when someone invites you to dinner. She was becoming more like Mulder every day. 

Waiting as Carolyn Dennison moved the pot to a cool burner, Scully felt another illogical surge of envy. Dennis and Carrie had a steadfast home environment, and they seemed happy. Was it too much to ask for a little stability? To have a life not dominated by work?

But despite those stubborn yearnings--born out of her lack of sleep, she was sure--Scully couldn't refrain from asking her hostess a case-related question. It was a characteristic she shared with Mulder--the desire, the need to solve mysteries. And it was an aspect of both of their personalities which she seldom regretted.

"You mentioned to Dennis that you fed Crayon some canned food from the Brants residence. Did you obtain the dog's dry diet there as well?"

Carrie replaced the lid on the pot, and Scully's stomach loudly protested the delay in dinner. "Yes, I believe so," was her calm reply. She did not seem surprised by the odd question and set a bowl of grapes next to Scully's elbow. "When Dennis brought Crayon home, he also brought home a half-used bag of dog food as well as the box of toys to which I referred." 

Searching futilely through what few pockets she had in her borrowed suit, Scully remembered that she left the two samples of dog food at the Concord satellite. "Do you still have the bag?"

Dennis's wife nodded and swung open the cabinet under the sink. The packaging was resting, neatly folded in the garbage. Fortunately, it was a simple--and relatively clean--procedure to scrape off the bits of Napa cabbage and ends of green beans.

Scully unfolded the bag and rummaged through it, extracting a precious few pieces of dog food. They were identical to the ones she found at the abandoned kennel. Sealing them in an evidence bag from her purse, she dropped the food on top of her stack of papers. Mulder would want to know about it.

"Would you like something to drink?" Carrie questioned, moving toward the refrigerator. She stopped short when there was the sudden barking of a dog, and she immediately turned to look out the kitchen window. Imitating her, Scully observed only an empty backyard.

There was fear in Carrie's eyes as she quickly moved past her. Following, Scully watched as two boys, perhaps separated by a maximum of five years, entered the darkened dining room through a sliding glass door. They were laughing loudly and followed closely by a bounding, barking Great Dane. 

The boys must be Carrie's nephews, looking as impish as her own. Matching the dog against one of the case photographs, Scully realized it was Crayon, previously owned by the deceased Sacramento SAC. She had mistakenly believed that Dennis had moved the dog to one of his veterinary clinics.

Interposing herself between her nephews and the Great Dane, Carrie commanded firmly, "Crayon, lie down." Scully was reminded of her father's navy voice, the one he used with his family for only the most serious indiscretions. 

The dog instantly obeyed, dropping to the carpet just inside the sliding glass door as his legs collapsed from under him. Scully frowned. The alacrity was comparable to the dogs in training in the Animal Assistance programs. Scully noticed with relief that Crayon was wagging his tail.

The boys had stopped laughing when they witnessed their aunt's grim expression and heard her serious voice. However, Carrie kept her gaze locked on the dog. "Boys, I thought we had agreed that you would stay away from Crayon. I don’t think removing his collar and chain counts as staying away.” Carrie skirted around the dining room table. “Jackson, please grab Crayon's leash in the hall closet." Her voice was pitched to be low and soothing, but allowed no room for objections. "Alex, please be a dear and run upstairs to wash for dinner."

Scully watched the scene from the kitchen doorway, relieved to see Crayon wagging his tail. She didn't turn on the dining room light, not wanting to distract the dog or trigger any abnormal behavior. Crayon appeared innocent. He lay his head upon his large paws. But Carrie kept her body carefully between Crayon and her nephews, interrupting his line of sight, and Scully wondered if he had a history of violence. Although she and Dennis had previously discussed the animal in some detail, he hadn't mentioned any handling difficulties. 

The Great Dane continued to wag his tail, a promising sign, and Scully allowed herself to breathe. 

Jackson returned with the leash quickly, and Carrie quickly fastened it to Crayon’s collar. 

There was a loud barking past the fences in the backyard. Scully heard Carrie murmur, “That’s odd; none of our neighbors have dogs.” Carrie stood slowly and started leading Crayon back into the yard.

The chirping of Scully's cell phone startled her, and Scully turned immediately back into the kitchen to remove the diversion. Knowing it was Mulder, she connected. "Scully," she said.

Suddenly, as she was tucking the phone more securely under her ear, the house behind her exploded in chaos.


	11. Walnut Creek 6:52PM

Twenty minutes--or twenty years later--Scully would have trouble deciphering what had happened. She heard the older nephew, Jackson, shout "Aunt Carrie!" at the same time his little brother had screamed, the alarmed, high-pitched squeal of youth. Both drowned out the content of Mulder's words, though Scully recognized his voice.

Simultaneously, Dennis's wife shouted out "Agent Scully!" and Scully heard the scraping of dog nails scrambling over the linoleum. Reaching automatically for her weapon as she twisted around, Scully almost panicked when she felt only the fabric of her suit. Her gun was touring the town with Dennis, she recalled.

The youngest nephew, Alex, shrieked again. Scully felt more than heard the jangle of dog tags alarmingly close to her as she aborted her turn and tried to redirect the motion into throwing herself sideways. Not again, complained a tiny portion of her mind.

Crayon collided with her, his body striking her high on her shoulder and ribcage. Fortunately, his attack was off center from Carrie attached to him on a taut leash. The shift and height meant most of his momentum to carried over her, but Scully lost her balance anyway, her weak ankle surrendering under the dog's weight. Collapsing, she wondered briefly if she resembled a helpless cat or smelled like a beef and liver entree. If the number of animals attacking her was any indication, she was a canine delicacy.

Her cell phone escaped her grip and skidded across the floor like a hockey puck, colliding into the wall. She thought she could hear Mulder calling out her name repeatedly before it crashed, but she might have been imagining it. Scully didn't watch the phone reach its final resting place; her attention was caught by Crayon.

Crayon had overshot his original goal, thankfully, and was skidding on the linoleum. She was reminded forcefully of Mercury, the Tibetan Mastiff from the previous attack and knew in this weaponless rendition of man versus wild she would lose, and lose quickly. Crayon turned back toward her, and from her position on the floor, he seemed much taller than Mercury, but not nearly as wide across the chest. Yet, he easily outweighed her and was all muscle. 

Crayon snagged the leash with his teeth, yanking Carrie off balance before he managed to pull it away from her grip. He charged them again, notably aiming for Carrie this time, and Scully moved to intercept. She was hampered by her tight skirt. She gritted her teeth in frustration--wear one attractive outfit, and it would be the day she wrested with a dog. Abandoning her planned Quantico tackle and resorting to a move she had learned when in a dogpile with her brothers, Scully twisted charged with her shoulder. Smacking into a lower rib, she hoped to keep the dog from sinking teeth into the pregnant woman.

Crayon barely moved and Scully's head connected with a femur. It felt like it was spinning. Oh, this is going to be fun, whimpered the sarcastic portion of Scully's mind as it reminded her why the move failed against her brothers when she was little . 

But it was enough to keep Crayon from biting Carrie. On the floor, Scully brought her knees around, twisting to generate more force in close quarters. She kicked again hard, trying to avoid Carrie who had tucked together to protect her abdomen. Cringing at the picture of greeting her college classmate with an injured pregnant wife, Scully tried to divert Crayon by wedging an elbow against his throat. Scully didn't have the leverage to apply much coercion, and the dog's trachea was protected by a lot of muscle 

"Alex! Jackson!" Carrie was shouting frantically, yanking at a back leg. "Get upstairs! Now!" There came the sound of running feet on the staircase and a door being slammed.

Suddenly, there was another growling dog in the room, snapping at Crayon and getting his attention by biting and holding an ear. Despite his superior position, Crayon leaped away, digging his paws into Scully's abdomen

Air whooshed out of her painfully, and Scully rolled away but tried to stay between both animals and her hostess. She scanned the room for possible weapons. The strange dog had released Crayon’s ear, and Crayon had launched himself away from the group. He found Scully’s cell phone and crunched it in powerful jaws.

Scully was so intent on watching both dogs, that when Carrie grasped her elbow, she jumped. Dennis's wife had maneuvered to her feet and was tugging Scully to rise as well. Scully’s injured ankle jabbed its protest when she placed her weight upon it, but Scully allowed herself to be led into the laundry room.

Carrie's choice in sanctuary location made her wince. David and Jennie Brants were killed in their laundry room, and she hoped the coincidence wasn't an omen.

Crayon dropped the cell phone, now a broken, slobbery heap of black plastic. Terrific, Scully thought, another unbelievable replacement request to submit. The supply department was already posting their requisition forms in the humor section of the departmental newsletter.

Scully pushed Carrie deeper into the laundry room, but Crayon didn't charge them. The other dog growled at Crayon. 

Eyeing the row of countertop appliances for a weapon, Scully rejected them immediately. She needed something with reach.

Something was pressed into her hand, and sparing the briefest of glances, Scully found Carrie had armed her with a broom. Mulder would have found a predictable joke in this situation. Definitely not a gun, but better than nothing. Carrie was holding a mop.

She gripped her broom with both hands. Quantico hadn't exactly concentrated on quarterstaff lessons. Crayon moved suddenly, and she braced herself, but he wasn't launching himself toward them.

Instead, the Great Dane placed his paws on the kitchen counter, knocking over her stack of paperwork. He slid a knife free from the knife block with his teeth. The other dog barked then backed toward the dining room and the open sliding glass door. As Crayon, dropped back onto all four paws, he swung his head toward the laundry room. The other dog barked again before racing out into the fading light.

Feeling faint, Scully slammed the laundry room door shut. She heard Carrie drop her mop behind her. It clattered on the linoleum, bumping against her ankle, but she ignored it.

"Oh shit," Carrie whispered.

Scully closed her eyes. Yes, that summed it up, she thought.

"Did--" Carrie coughed nervously. "Did Crayon-- Did I just see what I think I saw?" Her voice was weak.

Scully didn't move from her position facing the closed door, but she nodded. Against her will, pieces of the puzzle began to slide into place. Questions raised during her autopsy-- Scully shook her head almost violently. No, it wouldn't work, though she was yet unsure what *it* was that wouldn't work.

There was a noise of the knife being dropped on the other side of the door, and Scully tensed. After a moment of silence that felt like centuries, the doorknob rattled. Scully threw herself against the wood as her heartbeat raced. Crayon knew about doorknobs.

"No," Carrie hissed, "he can't open the door with his teeth. No grip." But Scully observed that despite her protests, Carrie joined her, braced against door and the possibility of Crayon turning the knob.

They stood side by side, pressing shoulders and hands into the wood, as Scully felt her palms grow moist. The dog outweighed her, but not their combined weight. No opposable thumb, she reminded herself; it was physically impossible for Crayon to simultaneously turn the doorknob and apply strength against the door. She listened to their rapid breathing and attempted to slow hers. Panic provided no advantages. 

The doorknob had stilled, and the kitchen was silent. 

"Alex and Jackson," Carrie gasped. "We have check on them."

Scully relaxed her grip on the broom as she felt splinters in her fingers. Looking under the door, she saw the shadow that was Crayon and pointed at it to reassure Dennis's wife. "They’re safe while the dog is here," she said gravely.

Carrie monitored the shadow closely. “What about that other dog?

Scully bit her lower lip. “I appeared to be helping us, but I think it decided not to join a knife fight. Did you recognize it?”

Carrie shook her head. Scully was worried that if Crayon moved away from the door, Carrie would charge out of their safehouse to protect her nephews. True, the wellbeing of the children came first, however, they couldn't completely abandon common sense and keep both themselves and the boys alive.

"And when Michael returns, the last thing he'll expect is to be greeted by Crayon with a knife." Carrie added, an edge in her voice.

Not a common occurrence, Scully silently agreed, nodding. With the element of surprise counteracting the dog's clumsiness, Crayon could easily stab Dennis. Dependent upon location, the knife wound might be fatal. Even Mulder with his extreme ideas would probably be startled by the sight of a dog gripping a knife in its mouth.

After hearing the commotion via cell phone, she could guarantee Mulder was *not* driving the speed limit at this very instant. She wasn't sure of his location when he called, but if it was the kennel, he was twenty minutes away. Mulder could chop five minutes off that estimate, as she would if their places were reversed. 

She propped the broom against the washing machine and gritted her teeth to keep from sighing. Cavalry and white knights aside, it looked like it was ladies' night.

"Michael has a medicine kit locked in the cupboard above the refrigerator," Carrie whispered. "If Crayon knows about knives and doorknobs, do you think he can understand language?"

It was a reasonable question, but Scully didn't have an answer. Animal intelligence testing would have to wait for a more opportune situation, preferably a time when the subject wasn't wielding a deadly weapon. 

"Euthanasia solution?" Scully asked reluctantly, keeping her voice in an undertone. She hated the idea, but it wasn't too much different from pulling the trigger when lives were at risk.

Carrie nodded, also seeming extremely upset by the suggestion. "We have a permit to stock a limited amount, but the pentobarbital requires intravenous administration. I doubt Crayon will hold out a paw for injection.”

One obstacle. "Neuromuscular blocking agents?" Scully had her doubts; it wasn't a typical "housecall" category of medications.

"No," Carrie confirmed with a frown, "but I know Michael has some general sedatives. We can give a ketamine and diazepam mix. That can be into the muscle, so we don't have to hunt for a vein."

Scully debated over a course of action. She would need to distract the dog while Carrie located the medications and prepared the sedative for injection. She hadn't seen ketamine used since her pediatric rotation in medical school. Also, she was completely ignorant to the doses required for dogs.

She would feel better keeping Dennis's wife and unborn child from risk, but realistically, the job would require both of them. For an instant, Scully debated staying in the laundry room. Mulder could shoot Crayon when he arrived. 

Knowing her partner as well as she did--especially his tendency to try to protect her--he would have his gun ready before crossing the threshold.

Glancing over at Carrie, Scully canceled the idea. It might be Dennis arriving home first, and she couldn't risk changing the dream home into a residence for a widow and an orphan.

The house was too quiet. "Okay," Scully said softly, stepping back from the door and adjusting her hold on the broom. "I will distract Crayon while you get the medications." She experienced an illogical impatience at having to explain her plan; if it were her partner beside her, he seldom needed a briefing. Of course, it was usually Mulder who charged ahead, keeping *her* guessing. 

There was a whimper from the kitchen, and Scully frowned as Crayon moved away from the door. Coincidence, she tried to convince herself. The dog couldn't possibly have heard and *understood* what she was saying. "I will try to keep Crayon's restrained so you can give him the injection," she added. "Just move fast."

Carrie nodded and reached in front of Scully to rest her hand on the laundry room doorknob. Taking a deep breath, Scully returned the nod to signal her to open the door.

The door jerked open, and Scully jabbed the end of the broom out into the kitchen, hoping to take Crayon off guard. The powerful swing missed. It missed because the target was lying on the kitchen floor a few feet away, unconscious.

The Great Dane's limbs were twitching. Seizure, thought Scully, recalling that David Brants had reported a similar occurrence the night of his death. She breathed, but did not relax. Although, she was relieved to delay the confrontation, Scully approached the dog carefully. She kept the broom at arm's length between them and kept herself between Crayon and Dennis's wife. There was no sign of the other dog.

Refusing to take her attention from the dog, Scully listened as Carrie unfolded a step stool, dialed the combination lock and pulled down Dennis's medication kit. She was silent as she prepared the medication. 

Scully was tempted to test if Crayon was faking the convulsions, but she resisted prodding him. If the seizures were indeed a ruse, she didn't want to escalate the situation prematurely. Nor did she want to ponder the intelligence required for the dog to counterfeit a condition it had probably never witnessed.

"Okay, Dana," Carrie whispered. "I'm ready."

Scully nodded, circling slowly around Crayon until she was near his head. The dog had stopped twitching and had begun panting, but his eyes remained closed. From her new vantage point, Scully could see the large, uncapped syringe in Carrie's hand. 

She tapped the broomstick lightly against Crayon's nose, but the dog didn't react. Sliding the end of the stick slowly through Crayon's collar, she grounded it on the bit of linoleum showing between Crayon's front legs. Scully angled the wood over the dog's chest and neck and leaned her weight onto it. 

If the Great Dane tried to stand up, it would need to break free of her weight, his collar and the impromptu wood prison. With Crayon’s superior size and strength, Scully estimated it might take him half a second.

Carrie pressed the needle into the muscle on the dog's haunch. Although Scully stiffened, there was no resistance. Carrie injected two milliliters of fluid before withdrawing the needle and moving to another muscle group. 

After three injections, she glanced up. "Five to ten minutes before full effect," she whispered. "I can try to make it work faster by giving the remainder of the drugs IV."

Scully acknowledged the information by leaning a little harder on the broomstick. Watching Carrie struggle to find a vein in one of Crayon's hind legs, Scully refrained from offering suggestions. Over the past years, she hadn't hit a vein on anyone except Mulder. Her partner was not nearly as furry. And he never tried to bite her.

When Carrie finally capped the empty syringe, Scully nodded, but maintained her position. "Do you have anything here to draw a blood sample?" she asked.

"Can it wait for Michael?"

"If there's a chemical imbalance involved, the sooner we obtain a sample the better."

Carrie capitulated and moved back to the medication kit. She returned with an empty syringe and tubes capped with an assortment of colors. As she kneeled beside the still Crayon, Scully heard her mutter, "I'm a pharmacist, Jim, not a phlebotomist."

When she finally completed her task, they had a total of ten small tubes of blood. Carrie seemed slightly embarrassed. "I don't actually know the difference between the different colored caps, so I filled a couple of each. They definitely weren't obtained under sterile conditions. But I guess you learn some things being married to a veterinarian."

Observing the dog lick his lips, Scully tensed, but there was no other movement. She readjusted her uncomfortable position, but did not lower her guard. "Has it been ten minutes yet?" It felt like ten decades.

"Two more minutes." As they stood there, Carrie added, "Not quite what I had in mind for dinner entertainment."

The irregular comment struck Scully as funny, almost something to which Mulder would allude to in a similar situation. However, the adrenaline pumping through her system prevented her from giving Carrie more than a tight smile. "Half of me wishes Crayon would've put up a fight," she confessed. "All the buildup and planning. . . It's rather anticlimactic to merely stroll out of here and knock him out when he's already unconscious."

Carrie grimaced and moved the blood filled tubes away from the counter’s edge. “I think I like less excitement”

"Once Crayon is officially sedated," Scully said, glancing at the clock--almost there, "I'll need to call Mulder. Assure him everything is under control."

"Good plan," Carrie agreed. "After we sedated an unconscious dog, we wouldn't want your partner to shoot him." 

They shared the small grin of conspirators.


	12. Martinez  7:06PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> My apologies that this chapter is so short but there wasn't a good breaking point later in the story. This chapter is more angst and less X-file but I am a sucker for when Mulder worries about Scully. As always, comments--good or bad--are always welcomed.  
> ***

Mulder barely overrode the desire to hurl his cell phone onto the freeway through the windshield. Dr. Dennison's after-hours answering service was aggravatingly resistant. Although he had explained the situation in detail and provided his badge number, the operator had adamantly refused to provide the veterinarian's pager or home telephone number. When Mulder had insisted upon speaking to the man's supervisor, he had been obnoxiously and abruptly disconnected.

Accelerating past a school bus crammed with teenagers, Mulder wrestled with his fear. His numerous unsuccessful attempts to reach Scully's cell phone had bracketed his failed conversations with Dennison's service and the Walnut Creek Police Department. 

The local law enforcement had been equal parts unimpressed and unhelpful. After bouncing through the personnel in a couple of unrelated departments, he had been placed on hold for five minutes, tortured by someone mutilating a canned rock version of "The Sound of Silence." 

Finally, Mulder had been connected with Andia Rogers a back-up FBI relations officer. The usual person was vacationing in Australia, prompting Mulder to raise unseen eyebrows. *His* last volunteer vacation--years ago--had been a UFO convention in New York, all his budget could afford. Walnut Creek had a designated FBI relations officer *and* a back-up FBI relations officer. He took consolation in the idea that the back-up could probably only afford the Carribean.

Officer Rogers immediately lost his confidence when she repeated his story almost verbatim: "So you're saying, you're worried because you heard Agent Scully drop her phone and you haven't been able to reach her?" Rogers proposed that that Agent Scully could have dropped her phone into a toilet. After rolling his eyes impatiently, Mulder had bluntly dismissed the suggestion. He had practically ridiculed her unlikely scenario, ignoring the keypoints of that last Quantico seminar on teamwork among all layers of law enforcement agencies. As if a physician who wielded scalpels on a daily basis would be so clumsy as to drop-kick her cell phone. As if Scully, one of the cleanest and most careful people he knew would ever be using her phone near a toilet.

True, he had no proof of criminal activity. No gunfire. No sounds of pain. No barking or growling dogs. Only the scream of a young child in the background and Scully's name being called. 

However, in the circumstances of his partner's safety, that was sufficient evidence. 

But Mulder had ruthlessly gritted his teeth while speaking to Rogers, especially when she sounded irate over his instant dismissal. Barely avoiding a snide comment about police academy intelligence requirements, Mulder faked agreement. Yes, he had finally muttered, it was possible that Agent Scully was clumsy and lost her grip on her cell phone, but could they send out a unit for investigation? 

His effort at diplomacy was rewarded. Although Mulder couldn't confirm Scully's location, the Dennison house was an educated guess. Rogers had a unit six blocks away, wrapping up a domestic squabble. It could swing by within fifteen minutes, he was assured.

Fifteen minutes.

Exceeding the speed limit by twenty miles an hour, Mulder knew he could arrive on site before the police did. Three more minutes, he estimated. He made it a personal quest and accelerated through the remnants of rush hour traffic. By the thumping of his heartbeat, it felt as if he were running the distance rather than driving it.

Perhaps his partner *had* inadvertently turned off her phone. With Scully's personality, it was grasping at straws, Mulder knew, but better that, than thinking of the endless ways she could be injured or dead. He had made drives like this many times in their partnership, knowing she was in danger and trying to reach her. Duane Barry was his biggest failure. He pushed down the thought while simultaneously pushing down nausea that clawed up his throat. Scully had probably made just as many wild drives to save him. Perhaps she was right; they should stick together more often. 

Conservation of energy, he thought, as he swerved across three lanes of traffic with only one flash of his signal and the briefest glance in the rearview mirror. Scully with her physics background would appreciate that philosophy. Mulder took the appropriate exit at a speed usually reserved for Indianapolis, slowing only when he rode the bumper of a lowered Volkswagen beetle.

The car made Mulder miss the green, and he silently cursed it, thumping a frustrated fist against the steering wheel. His mental clock ticked off seconds. He might have made it to eight when his patience reached an end. Barely checking both directions down the cross street, Mulder drove the rental sedan up the curb to swerve around the car at the retaining line. He made his left turn against the signal light.

Mulder drove the remaining way swiftly, virtually oblivious to the other drivers and cars. The shriek of rubber interrupted the quiet evening as he entered the targeted residential neighborhood. Luckily the street was empty of pedestrians. He slowed his speed only enough to read the passing house numbers. 

End of the street, Dennison had directed. Mulder sighted the lone two-story home on the right, slightly separated from the other standard suburban houses. He took what felt like his first breath of the evening. The home wasn't on fire, no dead bodies on the lawn, no lurking figures. The lights--porch, garage, and house--were all illuminated. 

Interpreting the lights as a good sign, Mulder ran down a brief checklist in his mind. He tucked the cell phone into a his pocket and rested a reassuring elbow against his gun. Taking inventory was something he had learned from Scully. Know your situation. 

She never specifically stated that philosophy, but before each stakeout, before each interrogation, before each confrontation, she would spare a moment. It was akin to counting blessings, Scully had joked once in a rare reference to her religious background. However, Mulder recognized the logic and respected it. It made sense to know one's advantages in any circumstance.

At the moment, however, Mulder knew he was without his greatest advantage in a crunch. It made him feel uncomfortably unprepared.

Last house on the right, he pulled diagonally into the open driveway, blocking the blue four-door in the garage. Mulder drew his pistol and leaped from the car. Hopefully, some neighborhood watch program would report his reckless driving and possession of a lethal weapon. Perhaps the police would arrive sooner.

He had his doubts.

Mulder entered through the garage, touching the hood of the car with the back of his hand as he passed. Cold. Dennison's truck was nowhere in sight. The house was quiet, but he was suspicious of the peaceful setting. He softly turned the doorknob.

Unlocked.

Mulder hesitated. If Scully wasn't here--and he charged in--he might frighten Dennison and his wife. Knocking on the door was a more conservative approach, but he would lose the valuable element of surprise.

Before Mulder could initiate a course of action, his cellular phone rang, the noise causing his heart to leap out of his chest. If it was heard by anyone inside the house--and he believed the sound had carried all the way back to Sacramento--he had lost that  
precious advantage of surprise. 

As he moved to answer it, an unfamiliar voice shouted from inside the house, "Dana, watch out!" Mulder abandoned the phone and was in action without thought. He slammed open the door with a shoulder and spun across the threshold, preceded by his pistol.

The first thing he saw was Scully's back, her diminutive frame leaning over a large dog. She was pressing a broomstick across the canine's chest. Mulder's memory quickly matched the Great Dane to the case photographs--Crayon. The dog's limbs jerked, but Crayon looked otherwise harmless. No blood on either of them.

Beyond his partner, a pregnant woman looked up at his entrance. Upon seeing Mulder's weapon pointed in her direction, she dropped the cordless phone she held. As it bounced erratically on the linoleum, his cell phone stopped ringing. 

Simultaneously, Crayon stopped jerking, and Mulder could hear the dog begin to pant from his place in the doorway. He observed Scully's arms and back ease, but otherwise, she retained her grip on the broomstick.

A motion tugged the corner of his eye and Mulder automatically swung his weapon to the right. His speeding heartbeat dominated his hearing. However, when he spotted the two young boys on the staircase watching the antics below, he immediately tipped the pistol up to the ceiling and engaged the safety. 

His partner glanced over her shoulder at him, catching his eye. Crayon was now lying very still. Stepping just inside the doorway, Mulder let the door close behind him. He should have predicted Scully would have everything under control. The only sign that anything had occurred--outside of her exercise in dog restraint--was the long run in her stocking paralleling the slender back seam he had admired earlier in the day. That and the fact that she was favoring her injured ankle again. 

Mulder kept his voice casual. "New game, Scully?" he asked. 

Scully didn't respond, not even the tight smile she usually bestowed at his jokes. Instead, she gave him a quick jerk of her head toward the boys on the stairs. They were still staring avidly at him. No, at his gun. Mulder swiftly holstered his weapon.

The pregnant woman--Mulder guessed she was Dennison's wife--approached him cautiously but with a polite smile. "You must be Agent Mulder," she said warmly, as if it were an everyday occurrence to greet armed FBI agents who just blew in through the door. "Dana and I were just attempting to contact you." She made a vague gesture to the dropped phone on the floor.

Mulder nodded, noticing for the first time the remnants of Scully's cell phone next to the refrigerator. A wave of anxiety passed through him, but he refrained from commenting. 

He adjusted his holster clip. "I don't usually make it a policy to greet people by pointing a weapon at them," he admitted with an effort to return her smile. He thought he heard Scully scoff at that.

"Carolyn Dennison," the woman responded, stretching out a hand in welcome. "And, in terms of greetings with guns, pointing one seems infinitely preferable to actually firing it."

As their hands clasped, the fear which had been fueling him evaporated, and Mulder glanced over at his partner. Scully rewarded him with a hallmark eyebrow.


	13. Martinez 11:51PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theories and exposition. I can see Mulder and Scully spending many a late night in a similar activity. Maybe they think it's romantic banter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the longer chapters, so hopefully it will tide readers over till the next update (which may be a few days, sorry!)

*******

Mulder leaned back on the couch, wondering if there was a subtle way to loosen his belt. Too much tasty food; it almost made him want to learn to cook himself.

And Carolyn Dennison had been merciless, bringing out a peach cobbler for dessert, too soon after he had wolfed down that third helping of dinner. He could hear her humming in the kitchen as she loaded the dishwasher. Probably deeply involved in secret government agendas, happy to have killed another Bureau agent with kindness and good cooking. It wasn't too outrageous of an idea; she had the government connections, working for the VA, didn't she?

He was on to her. 

Of course, that hadn't stopped him handing over his gun before dinner. Nor from gobbling down a second helping of the cobbler. With ice cream. Mulder felt more stuffed than the night he had invited Scully to his apartment to review a complicated case file. He had been so engrossed with his reading, he had finished an entire large Toni's special by himself, *before* Scully's appearance.

Because it had been early in their partnership, Mulder had hid the evidence. He had wanted to avoid frightening Scully with his self-absorption--and his appetite. When she had finally arrived, he had ordered another large pizza and forced down a few slices to avoid suspicions. Part of the way through the third slice, the words 'death by pizza' ran through his mind on a continuous loop. 

Now, it was 'death by peach cobbler.'

Scully sat on the other side of the couch, oblivious to his pain as she organized the information from the Bureau, separating the pages and envelopes into smaller stacks. She performed the task with the efficiency of years of experience. Without pausing, she smoothly dropped a few reports onto his lap.

Mulder rubbed his stomach ruefully. He had almost eaten more than the older nephew, Jackson. At least he no longer worried about Dennison's place in Scully's life. The veterinarian would have to be considered certifiably insane to abandon hot meals for a redhead who ate directly from takeout boxes when she wasn't munching salads.

He watched his partner work. She was faintly humming a tune he didn't recognize, and it was surprising, for she never hummed. Surround Scully with friends in a domestic environment and she was practically crooning. Well, sort of.

Mulder was suddenly struck with the knowledge that he would give up more than he'd care to admit for this specific 'redhead.' That, by his action on that bridge years ago, he *had* already willingly exchanged his sister, Samantha, for his partner. Or at least the clone he had believed was his sister. 

Mulder dropped his gaze to the papers. Sometimes, in moments of illogic, he held that decision against Scully. It was unreasonable, he knew. It had been his decision, and in memory, there had been no hesitation--at least no more than he would have spared in exchanging any other person on the planet for Scully's safety. 

Yeah, Dennison would have to be considered insane to change his life of domestic tranquility to their life of government conspiracies and paranormal phenomena. However, insanity was technically a legal term, and Mulder could count on one hand the number of people who did *not* think Spooky Mulder was crazy.

But, no, Dennison was a family man, even if his spouse resembled someone stealing basketballs from a sporting goods store. 

He glanced across the couch at his partner. Scully would kill him if he expressed that opinion. Not that Mulder thought badly of Carrie Dennison. Hell, he liked her better than her husband. She possessed a highly quirky sense of humor.

Opening the top folder on the stack Scully had given him, he skimmed through a financial report on Animal Assistance. The company appeared to be on solid financial grounds. Uninteresting. Closing the folder, he patted his stomach again. 

"Mulder, if you continue rubbing your belly, a genie might appear and grant you three wishes," Scully said, not looking up from the last of the papers in front of her. 

"Your presence is all I could wish for, Scully," he answered with a grin. 

She ignored him, finishing the sorting and pulling the nearest stack to her edge of the coffee table. Damn, he'd have to start being more outrageous to get a response. Well, if he proposed one of his theories later, that should do it.

Despite Mulder's unease about discussing the case details in the Dennisons' presence, he had wanted to share his day's findings with his partner. However, every time Mulder had broached a subject even remotely case-related over dinner, he had received a discreet nudge from Scully under the dining table. The dinner conversation had been predominantly and annoyingly mundane. 

Perhaps it was an unfair description; everyone laughed over college memories and Dennison's animal stories. Yet, Scully had demonstrated her talents at smoothly directing any of his work-related comments into entirely unrelated conversation topics. It would be an amazing skill if it weren't so frustrating.

Mulder leafed through the final autopsy report on the Brants. Old news, yet interesting if you supposed the assailant was a dog. Dennison had arrived home soon after Mulder, and glaringly before the police. He had injected Crayon with more sedatives and the dog had slept his way--chained in the laundry room--through dinner. 

Dennison was now driving the dog to his veterinary clinic to be safely locked away in a kennel. Where, in Mulder's opinion, the dog should have been contained in the first place. 

"Did we get an analysis of the dog food sample?" he asked.

"Preliminary only." She handed him the report without raising her gaze from the paper in front of her. "High on the protein and fat content, similar to many high performance dog foods. That was received early in the afternoon. The final report will be faxed to our hotel."

Mulder barely looked it over. "High protein and fat, sounds like Toni's pizza," he murmured for her ears only. If the information held no interest to Scully, he doubted he'd find much. With her scientific background, it was reasonable to rely upon her strengths.

"Look at this, Mulder." Scully moved closer to him to pass a thick folder. "I had Dennis send some of the samples from his necropsies to our lab at headquarters. They confirmed his findings, but also reported the presence of an unknown compound with metabolites in the spinal fluid."

"Unknown?"

"The breakdown is unlike anything on record." She tugged out a sheet of chemical diagrams. "It looks organic, very similar to a synthetic peptide, but the sidechains aren't standard amino acids."

Mulder tried not to rush his next question. "Extraterrestrial?" He could feel his mood dramatically improve as he shifted closer to Scully on the couch.

That earned him a skeptical gaze from his partner. "Mulder," she replied impatiently, "even if the amino acids were unlike any used in human proteins, it does not follow that the source is alien. Cats have an essential amino acid requirement of taurine, but taurine is absent in human proteins."

He examined the diagrams. "So you're saying that most of these amino acids are common, but a few are unrecognizable," he remarked, knowing that was *not* what his partner was saying.

"No," she admitted. Scully never shied away from agreeing with those parts of his theories supported by concrete evidence. "All of the side chains are unfamiliar. The peptide backbone is standard." Before Mulder could comment, Scully added, "However, that does not necessarily indicate that the source is extraterrestrial. This--peptide is only five residues long if you count the links. It could easily be assembled in a chemical laboratory."

"Whatever the original source," Mulder deferred the argument, rotating the structure around slowly, "its presence cannot be a coincidence. How many animals had this substance in them?"

Before Scully could answer, a shadow darkened the paper as Carolyn Dennison passed between it and the lamp. Mulder tightened his grip on the page but did not remove it from her scrutiny, no matter what his instincts were. Sucker for a good meal, he thought.

"That was found in the CSF?" Carrie asked, leaning over the back of the couch between them for a closer look. When Mulder couldn't keep his hand from twitching, she added, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. Is it classified?"

Scully shook her head. "Not really," she answered, meeting her partner's eyes. Trust her, he could feel her silently demanding. "And yes, it was found in the CSF of two dogs and three cats, the animals on which Dennis performed his postmortems."

Mulder gritted his teeth as Scully finished her description. Trust her, he thought disgustedly. This from the same person who kept reminding him to trust no one. It bordered hypocritical.

He sighed as he felt his partner's gaze on him. He could never accuse Scully of being hypocritical. Well, maybe there was one area, now that he thought about it. And that was her religion. All of his theories, in all of their cases, she demanded irrefutable proof. Yet when it came to religion, he would have to tie a rope on her to keep her from making that leap of belief she rarely bestowed on him.

Not that he could blame her. It was difficult, sometimes impossible, to relearn a way of life which permeated your childhood. Just like he couldn't shake his search for Samantha. In its own way, it was his religion. His faith.

Unfortunately, it was his weakness as well. A fact Scully knew all too well. His partner was experienced at protecting him from his worst enemy.

Himself.

"In the blood samples as well?" Carrie asked, interrupting his musings. The reminder of her presence was akin to a cold shower, and he almost glared at her in response.

Stealing the folder away from her partner's other hand, Scully shuffled through the pages quickly. Mulder refrained from chewing on his lip; after all, the folder wasn't marked 'confidential.'

"Yes," Scully finally confirmed, looking at their host. "It was in the blood in higher concentrations. Why do you ask?"

Carrie traced a finger along some of the structure. "It's the pharmacist training in me, I suppose. These parts of the compound are extremely hydrophilic. And it's a gigantic molecule. I wouldn't expect something so large, and with so many positive and negative charges, to cross the blood brain barrier."

Mulder watched his partner reexamine the paper. "Good point," she acknowledged, and he almost hear the ideas whirling around in Scully's head. She quickly scanned the remainder of the folder. "Its presence in the CSF could be due to breakdown of the barrier after death. However, the metabolites were found solely in the CSF."

"And?" Mulder prompted when Scully appeared to be caught in thought, mulling over the puzzle.

Carrie straightened, using the back of the couch for support. Her pregnant stomach seemed enormous in profile and proximity. "And that indicates that the parent compound crossed the barrier before death," she explained on Scully's behalf. "Otherwise the metabolites would be in the bloodstream as well."

Mulder sifted through the informal medical training he had absorbed from his partner over the years. "What you're saying is that this alien substance shouldn't cross into the brain, but from the location of the breakdown products, it has." He caught Scully's frown at the choice of his description, 'alien.' He frowned back at her. "I thought you told me during the Greg March case that most of the metabolism in the brain occurs *within* the neurons. So that means this compound not only crossed the blood brain barrier, it was absorbed, possibly stored within the brain cells."

Before his partner could answer, Carrie interjected, "That might be true, but step one would be to verify that the parent compound does cross the blood brain barrier. The only way to be confirm it would be to have samples from live animals."

Scully nodded. "Your husband mentioned that he would perform a lumbar puncture on Crayon at the clinic. If the dog has the same compound in his system, it would provide a definitive answer." She showed Carrie another sheet of chemical diagrams. "These are some of the metabolites."

Mulder still didn't feel comfortable with his partner's trust in an outside source. To hide his tension, he examined another stack of envelopes, these under a separate case number. They detailed the few leads in the Brants murders. 

He reviewed them with incredulity and a touch of disgust. The listed proposals were almost as far-stretched as the dog being the murderer.

"They don't mean much to me," admitted their hostess after a while. "This metabolite appears structurally similar to dopamine, but other than that, they're all a complete mystery."

Scully didn't appear disappointed by the verdict. "Mulder, what did you find at that last kennel?" she asked, tucking the data back into its folder.

Mulder hesitated, but managed to not send a glance in Carrie's direction. The woman was perceptive, however, and gave them both a wry grin.

"You know, Dana," she said, stepping away from the couch, "I have a closet full of clothes. Michael mentioned that the airline has lost most of your luggage. I’m not much taller than you. Let me run upstairs and see what might be close to your size. I don't wear suits at my job, but maybe I have other things that'll fit." Her grin became warmer and she patted her belly. "As you can see, I'm not wearing them right now."

Their host waved off Scully's protests and retreated for the staircase. His partner waited until Carrie had left the room before she hissed at him, "What I don't understand, Mulder, is how you ever received the reputation of being a charmer."

Scully's flash of temper--though expected--surprised him with its depth. Mulder attempted to cover his discomfort with a weak chuckle, but he was unable to meet her accusing eyes. "Reputation?" he answered, unearthing the same tone he had used in an old joke. He didn't finish it but somehow knew she'd recognize the reference.

"Well," she mumbled, and he had to lean toward her to catch her words, "some of the women in the secretarial pool."

Now that was a reputation he could enjoy. He started to make a flippant remark, surely Scully would be expecting one, when he noticed a faint blush to her cheeks. Even with his most risque comments, she never blushed. 

He hesitated. 

Scully was definitely someone who didn't gossip--inefficient waste of time, she had once commented--so she must have overheard something. Mulder wondered who said it and what she said. True, there was some meager history with a few members of the pool, but it was old history, dating back to his early Bureau days. Before the X-files, even prior to that painful life with the BSU and Patterson. She was leaning away from him a bit, and Mulder was suddenly struck with a desire to keep her from retreating to the far end of the couch.

He revised his initial planned reply and settled on, "Must be the ones I *haven't* flirted with." When Scully rolled her eyes at him, he took that as a sign that she had regained her equilibrium.

He switched topics, knowing it put his partner slightly off balance again, but he was eager to share his findings since she had batted him down during dinner. "The other two Animal Assistance kennels were identical in layout to the one this morning," he described. "Even had their own little asshole kennel managers to match. Personally, I think we stumbled onto a diabolical government plan to overrun the nation with Mr. Wharton clones."

"Any other dogs from Mercury's litter?" she asked, adjusting her skirt slightly, tugging it downward. Mulder's gaze followed the motion, resting on her slender knees. Despite her adjustment, a good hand-breadth of thigh remained exposed. Her legs were bare, but he had noticed the absence of the ruined hose earlier. 

Scully had escaped to the bathroom soon after Mulder relieved her of broomstick duty on the dog, Crayon. On her return to the kitchen, the hose had disappeared as had her mild limp. Every hair was neatly in place again.

Tearing his eyes away from his partner's legs, Mulder looked up into her face, half expecting to see raised eyebrows. Fortunately, Scully was scribbling something in the margin of one of the reports and hadn’t noticed his perusal. He took the opportunity to swallow hard and adjust his stack of folders more strategically on his lap, blaming the wine from dinner for wrecking his focus. Shit, you would think from his body's eager reaction to a pair of legs that he hadn't been sexually satisfied for a long time.

Mulder grimaced. Okay, so it had been a long time. At least if you went by the strict definition of satisfaction; he found ways to tamp down his appetite on an infrequent basis, but appeasement and ending his cravings were two different matters.

"Mulder?" Scully inquired, and he mentally floundered for a moment to recall her original question.

"Um, no," he answered, hoping *he* wasn't blushing. "And all the other trainers I met were not in the Crawfords' caliber. The dogs were only put through basic training. It seems any advanced training is reserved for either Whit and May Crawford or another man named John Henlan." He grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote down a list, so Scully would not have to rely on his presence to know the names Agent Chow had briefly showed him. "In terms of matches for first names, there were three in the Animal Assistance personnel files. This John Henlan fellow, Martin and Tanisha."

Scully reached out a hand, and he passed her the list before she could ask. "Mulder," she said as she scanned it. "John is a very common name, but Martin and Tanisha are definite candidates. Did you speak to any of them?"

He shook his head. "No, Martin Castellano and Tanisha Long are both part-time employees, but I have their home addresses. Henlan is supposedly a couple of days overdue from vacation, but no one is suspicious because he seems to have a habit of extending his time off without notifying anyone. I have his address too."

"As you indicated earlier, Mulder, there's no match on this list for Whit Crawford, but there's a Margaret. Sometimes Margaret can be shortened to Maisie or May." She folded the list and tucked it into a pocket. "Did you you go by the horse stables of Dr. Chavez?"

"They were empty. Her other horses were sold and the property is waiting for a buyer. However, I did find a neighbor who told me that the horse that killed Dr. Chavez, Perfecta, was extremely fond of dog food." Mulder let his partner absorb the information, but she didn't react. "What did you find out when you weren't improving your dog restraint techniques?"

She made a face. "I discovered the Concord Resident Agency has an uncooperative copy machine and the paperwork required for an animal attack is more time consuming than the forms I had to complete for discharging my weapon in public at an unknown assailant." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Now I know why you drop your gun all the time."

Mulder exaggerated a wince. "Below the belt, Scully."

"I did enjoy part of the afternoon at UC Davis, because it reminded me of teaching at Quantico, though more pungent. Did you know an animal pathology laboratory is more malodorous than a human morgue? Dennis taught me the dubious pleasure of opening up the rumen on a cow left bloating in the sun for a week."

He grinned. "Aw, Scully, you never take me anywhere."

"I believe the stench is still clinging to my clothes." she complained. 

There was a sound of a dog barking in the distance. Deep barreled chest from the sound of it. Mulder looked quickly at Scully, but she shook her head at him. “You’ll never find a black dog in the dark unless the dog wants to be found. It avoided your search before dinner.”

“Maybe it wants to be found now,” he told her but intuition told him that a scouring of the neighborhood would be futile “Your dog savior must be related to the case.”

“It could have been a stray,” Scully commented but her voice sounded as skeptical as the first time she proposed it. 

Mulder made sure his expression of astonishment was pronounced.

She tapped her pen against the paper in front of her, “It looked like that rebellious dog from the kennel.”

“Venus?”

Her lips twisted at the name. “Yes, that one. But that would be impossible. The kennel is several miles from here.”

“Maybe the Crawfords teach the dogs to drive in the super advanced training levels.”

Scully looked closely at him. Knowing she was trying to read if he was joking, he kept his face as serious as possible.

He could see the moment she decided not to pursue him down that rabbit hole. "Did Agent Chow call you?" she asked.

Mulder sobered. "Yeah," he answered, she says Corganman is looking for my profile on the Brants killer."

Scully gave him a sympathetic smile. "The official reason why we're on the case," she said. "Did you write one?"

"I strategically called Corganman after the Field Office was closed and left a message on his voicemail. Buys me time tonight." He shrugged. "Besides, I need to somehow put hairy, walks on all fours and drools a lot into the profile."

"You think Crayon did it."

Mulder was startled by her statement. "Scully, you saw the dog pull a knife from the counter! Who do you think did it?" He stopped his tirade when he realized his partner wasn't arguing the matter. "It matches your theory about the irregular stabbing pattern and lack of any struggle at the crime scene," he finished mildly.

"We can't exactly prosecute a dog, Mulder. Some *person* must be ultimately behind this. You said so yourself, a trainer, a drug, an outside influence." She leaned toward him across the papers.

"You didn't like my whammy theory," he replied, mollified. 

He could never maintain anger at Scully, even when she blindly rejected his propositions. Sometimes--in her eyes or posture--he suspected Scully accepted his ideas internally. Yet, she would try to tear them down. He used to resent it, but now he expected the systematic analysis, craved it.

The end result was that his theories, his field observations, his case reports were stronger, more complete. Whereas before her assignment to the X-files, his superiors would dismiss the cases as a joke or hobby, now the department had earned some respect--meager but people listened. Their case solution rate was exceptional, and Skinner's complaints about their final reports were usually a conflict with Mulder's investigative approach or Mulder’s dancing through the grey areas of the law and rarely due to technical matters or logic chain. 

Scully needed hard evidence, and Mulder had learned to need it too. They seldom found the complete picture where the paranormal was involved, but Scully had a talent for taking bits and pieces and making it seem whole. 

He had been secretly tallying their paranormal cases against those they solved through regular mundane channels. Detective work, Scully had pointed out several times in the past. Their solving of the pseudo-paranormal cases was truly what brought their solution rate up. For every case that broke toward his edge theories, there was a matching one that could be explained by his partner.

Nothing was more disappointing than a promising X-File which turned into a middle-of-the-road kidnapping or serial killer or scenario to hide a white collar crime. Aside from the exultant moment of justice served, Mulder found them boring, especially the documentation. He left those up to Scully to breathe life into a description of database screens, number crunching, warrant requests, and house searches. He lived for the mystery, the ideas, the hope that there would be the unexplainable to leap over all explanations.

"Are you still proposing dog whammies, Mulder?"

He shook his head at her while at the same time appreciating that it was her explanations that allowed his leaps for the unexplainable attain such magnificent and thrilling heights. "No, but--hear me out, Scully--what if this unknown government project was an experiment with a drug to make animals more intelligent. An animal that learns faster makes a better killing machine. What if this substance enables the animal to problem solve. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. Combine that with training and aggression, and you have the governmental ideal for the perfect soldier."

"Flowers for Algernon," she murmured. At Mulder's confused expression, she added, "the book about similar experiments of increasing intelligence in animals and later in humans."

"Lawnmower Man," he affirmed. 

“Not Lawnmower Man,” she disagreed. “I believe that movie moved from organic intelligence to conversion to the electronic.”

He pretended not to hear her. "And take a smarter animal, you can't train it to have society's values. It takes years to instill that into children. Puppies and kittens become full-grown in less than a year. See, Scully, you can create an army that can live out of kennels--trained--without a bothersome conscience. Disposable."

Scully shook her head, and Mulder almost grinned. Time for the holes in his theory. She would find them unerringly. "But what about the aggression, Mulder?" his partner asked. "You said so yourself that the attacks were sudden, like the flipping of a switch."

"Some learned signal, a trigger." At the skeptical twisting of her lips, he added, "It's not that extreme an idea, Scully. Maybe it's something subconscious like a hypnotic suggestion."

"'You are getting very sleepy' to a dog?" Scully's eyebrows raised slightly, but Mulder refused to relent despite her objections. "And Mulder, why not use this drug on humans and create individuals with superhuman intelligence? If we're dealing with the same shadow government that tagged millions of citizens in the small pox eradication program, we know they wouldn't hesitate to experiment on humans."

"Maybe it doesn't work in humans," he countered. "What if the human race wouldn't benefit from more brain mass. It's suggested that individuals only use a fraction of their brain capacity. There would be no advantage to increasing unused functions."

She shook her head adamantly. "Circumstance too. Where did Crayon get his training? Jennie Brants volunteered at the local Animal Assistance kennel, but the time involved to train those dogs is phenomenal." She started ticking off the case victims on her fingers as she carefully reviewed the case. "Dr. Christopher Kinghaven was mauled by his dog and two cats. Cats, Mulder, do you know how difficult it is to train cats? His wife's statement said all three pets were kept indoors and were never kenneled. And Kurt Hembrey was an organic chemist, not connected with Animal Assistance. "

She shuffled through another folder. "Glory Peterson also had no connection with Animal Assistance. She volunteered on weekends with the SPCA, but her dog was a fourteen-year-old beagle, with hip dysplasia and blind in one eye. Certainly not a prime candidate for intensive dog training."

"Don't miss any victims, Scully," Mulder said when she paused. But he kept his tone light to assure her that he appreciated her input. 

She gave him a fleeting smile. "I think I made my point."

"Maybe the drug's in the food. The preliminary showed a high protein composition. Would the laboratory be able to differentiate this irregular peptide from other proteins?"

"No, not in a standard analysis," Scully admitted. "However, it's a lot of 'maybe's and'what if's. Too many assumptions and suppositions."

"Okay," he said impatiently. "What's your theory?"

She sighed. "I don't have one. The only thing I *know* is that I'm exhausted and sleep deprived." When Mulder blinked at the change in subject, she looked away. "As much as I enjoy Dennis and Carrie's company, I can't help wishing we could disappear--could collect all this information and leave. It'll be almost midnight before we return to the hotel, and that's if we walked out the door now."

"Okay," Mulder repeated, softer this time. Suddenly Scully did appear fatigued, and she had wrestled yet another killer dog. He started to gather the various folders, but his partner touched his arm to stop him.

"Mulder, we can't leave before Dennis returns. I'm merely complaining. It'd be unforgivably rude to leave now, much as I'd like to hibernate in the hotel."

"Hibernate? Together?" He teased, continuing to stack files.

Scully's grip on his wrist tightened. "Mulder, no," she said. "I have few enough friends left to alienate any of them. Besides, we need to finish reading all of these documents. Maybe we'll find something important hidden among them."

He hesitated, then relented under her determined gaze. "If it would make you sleep easier, we could switch rooms tonight," he said, hoping to coax a smile.

"Nice offer, Mulder," she replied, leaning back on the couch. "You get the jacuzzi tub, big screen television and balcony. I'm afraid I'll have to decline that generous arrangement."

"Hey, it was generous. You said all the clashing shades of red hurt your eyes. My sole genetic defect protects me. I thought it'd make it easier for you to sleep."

This time Scully did smile. "I think the better solution is to just turn off the lights." She passed him the next stack of papers, but her smile continued.

***********


	14. Vallejo 7:47 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mulder and Scully are much stronger as a team but sometimes cases are not smooth sailing.

Vallejo  
7:47 AM

Agent Scully blinked at the bright morning sun as Mulder brought the rental car around to the hotel entrance. Usually, she would have thought his insistence to fetch the car from the far parking lot to be patronizing and more than a little irksome, but her ankle had turned a deep purple overnight to remind her that she had twisted it again. More accurately, Crayon, the behemoth of a dog had. Although her heel height was conservative, it was far higher than the doctor in her would recommend to someone with a similar injury. However, it was the only pair she had at her disposal until the airline located her luggage.

As her head throbbed in synchronicity with her ankle, Scully had to admit she had also exceeded her wine consumption limits last night as well. She wasn’t sure if the coffee Mulder had brought her this morning had improved or worsened it. 

Mulder stopped the rental car against the curb with the door handle within easy reach, but before she could reach out, he leaned over the seats to pop the door open.

Scully slid in, attempting to make the movement look easier than it was. She suspected that Mulder was watching her for any sign of discomfort from her ankle, though his eyes were downcast while he fished for some sunflower seeds. 

The pain in her ankle stabbed at her with any change in direction, but the true difficulty in movement was the bottle green suit she wore. While yesterday’s borrowed blue suit had been a bit shorter and tighter than her usual wardrobe, she had chosen it because it was longer and looser than the svelte suit she pulled on today. 

Whoever Dennis’s connection was at the department store, they obviously favored form over function, and close-fitting form at that. If Carrie’s loaned clothes had consisted of anything more formal than jeans, summer dresses and bright colored blouses, Scully would have worn them instead. Admittedly, when she first saw her image in the mirror, she had considered changing to one of the informal options anyway.

Green, She couldn’t remember the last time she wore this particular shade. It used to be Melissa’s favorite, claimed long before Scully started caring about what colors would flatter her complexion. Melissa would have loved this suit with its rich velvety texture and border of dark blue-black embossing at the collar and the band at the hem of the skirt. 

Scully had chosen a dark hose, partially to hide her purple ankle but mostly hoping to trick the eye into thinking the length of the skirt was longer than it was. The hemline would have been the characteristic Melissa would have liked the most, a very hypocritical enjoyment from her sister who had rarely worn anything shorter than mid-shin. 

And it was tight. She could barely hide her gun without stretching out the jacket, and it made a definite lump when she turned or leaned over. There was no way Scully would be able to tackle assailants or run from dogs. Not unless she hiked the skirt upward a few inches. She stifled a chuckle. Four inches might be enough. 

She was glad that Mulder had decided to change plans. Instead of heading back to the Sacramento office to meet with Chow and Corganman, he suggested they investigate the possible matches to the names on the list. Scully usually didn’t worry what other people or coworkers thought of her, but at the FBI, she preferred to look like someone who advanced through her own merits and not from showing a lot of leg and chest.

Mulder was tapping his fingers softly against the steering wheel as he maneuvered the car onto the highway. He had turned the stereo volume lower as soon as she had buckled her seatbelt. She wondered if it was in deference to her headache, though she had not told him she had one. Mulder's powers of observation were like him--erratic and intensive in focus, but frequently, amazingly, irritatingly spot-on. He could come cold into a crime scene and within seconds, find the one object that would be instrumental in the crime's resolution. She would consider it magic if she believed in magic.

While other agents would claim it was Mulder's embracing of the paranormal that earned him the spooky designation, Scully knew the nickname had started before the X-Files. A few questions around his old unit revealed that the appellation was in reference to that mystical ability Mulder had to identify the key characteristic in a personality profile or find the pivitol piece of evidence at a crime scene or throw in the only bit of conversation that set everyone in a meeting on edge. In everyone's mind, when he had embraced the X-Files, the nickname became even more appropriate.

It was hardly surprising that Mulder would pick up that she cringed when the hotel elevator moved downward, that she winced when they emerged from the hotel's entrance into the sun, or that she moved a shade slower than usual. Scully wondered if Mulder also felt the residuals of the alcohol they had last night, because she estimated he had had at least twice the amount of wine she did. However, the fact that he had been out for a run and a trip to a coffee house before she had dressed worked against that conclusion. His larger mass and gigantic amount of food he had consumed had probably rescued him.

The near silence fit Scully’s mood and she read through the lab reports again, flipping slowly through the pages. Sometimes she wished she had her partner’s eidetic memory. She had a system—an excellent system—for learning. And she knew she was highly intelligent, but sometimes Mulder’s ability to pluck facts from the ether made her feel like she flailed around in his shadow. 

She glanced sidelong in his direction as he passed a slow truck. “Facts” was entirely inaccurate, but Mulder’s knowledge of the case files was amazingly comprehensive. He never ceased to amaze her how he knew the contents of the X-Files file cabinets with uncanny precision. 

It was unspoken between them--but accepted knowledge--that soon after joining the team, Scully had made several copes of almost all of the case files to place duplicates and cross-referenced folders under multiple categories. It was time well invested, freeing her mind from having to remember if Mulder filed “levitation” under “telekinesis” or “magic carpets” or “Fred Forman” the man who allegedly floated 3 feet off the bed at a hotel and out the balcony door before landing in the swimming pool 4 flights down. She suspected Mulder appreciated the effort as well, especially with the frequency—when trying to prove a point—he would snatch a folder out of the filing cabinet and wave it at her. They both knew it would be much less impressive if he were waving a folder labeled "astral projection" when trying to make a point about spontaneous combustion.

Scully flipped a couple of pages of the report, examining the amino acid side changes. The lab had sent a few protein folding models but her expertise had been in the bookends of physiology and physics more than molecular biology.

As she tilted the page, she could feel Mulder glancing her way several times as he drove. Using her peripheral vision, she could see the focus of his gaze was her legs. She slid the case file toward her knees but couldn’t truly be mad at her partner. When she stepped out of her hotel room, this morning, she knew the hemline of her suit would garner a comment and was surprised when he offered none. Instead, he handed her coffee and a bag with a pastry and walked away.

“Mulder,” she cleared her throat to raise her volume. She was pretty sure her cheeks were flushed. “Carolyn Dennison is right. These protein models shouldn’t cross the blood brain barrier. I don't know if we can conclude that they did.”

When there was no answer, she turned to him. His eyes were determinedly on the road. He had stopped tapping and his hand froze on the way to put a sunflower seed in his mouth.

“Mulder,” she began again.

“I heard you,” he said. He took a deep breath. “If the protein models are correct, you are telling me that you are now in disagreement about a secret government experiment involving intelligence-inducing dog food that has the side effects of psychosis and aggression.” His voice had an accusing edge.

She blinked, surprised that he had mutated her comment into a total attack on his theory. The vehemence in his tone was also unexpected, and she was unsure about his change of mood. She decided not to point out that she had never been in agreement with his proposal. “Each item you listed is inconclusive,” she replied, trying to remain calm and keep her own temper from flaring. “I believe the evidence supporting the following is limited or non-existent—“

“Are you about to spout a checklist to me?” Mulder interrupted. 

“Mulder,” Scully murmured. She could see his anger simmering behind his mild scowl at the cars on the freeway. She frowned back at him. “Actually, Mulder, yes. I am going to spout a list at you. I am not ready to attribute all the deaths to a government experiment. That theory is currently only based on one claim, Dr. Chavez, and we have no ability to ask for details as she is deceased.”

“Murdered.”

“The legal definition of murder requires another person to commit the action with intent and malice aforethought. A horse cannot murder.”

“Manslaughter.”

Scully closed her eyes and kept from pointing out that, like murder, only humans could commit manslaughter. “ We went through this already, Mulder. The animals may be the weapon but not the perpetrators.”

“According to your theory.”

She met his gaze. “I thought it was *your* theory, Mulder,” she said, finally giving into the urge to point out that fact. She shut the case folder. “ I might want more evidence supporting governmental involvement, that the animals involved have increased intelligence and not just abnormal CT scans, and that aggression is a side effect of an exogenous influence instead of the desired effect. However, I will concede each factor matches the only theory you proposed.”

Mulder thinned his lips and signaled to take the next freeway exit. “I never said it was my *only* theory. It was my most likely.” 

It occurred to her that Mulder's most likely theory was often everyone else's least likely. “I’m waiting to hear your others,” Scully prodded gently when he didn't elaborate. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear them. Mulder often pulled out his most extreme theories when he was upset, though it was more troubling that he was sometimes right. 

“I’m thinking an incarnation of the celtic god Cernunnos, or more likely a cult for the Egyptian deification Babi since he has the reputation of being aggressive and bloodthirsty, living on entrails.”

At her raised eyebrows, he added, “I’m thinking of the beastmasters of legend, though I’m unsure if it’s through cajolement or befriending.”

“I thought we were past dog whammies, Mulder.” She didn’t want to bite when he was throwing out wild ideas. She could picture them in their office, Mulder pulling out folders from the X-Files file cabinets at random and slapping them down on the desk in front of her. No, she determinedly looked out the passenger window and swallowed down the words, “you’re crazy” because she always tried to refrain from using that description in anger. Astonishment, disappointment, humor, frustration, yes but not in anger.

She realized she was biting her lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Her cell phone rang, and she welcomed the diversion. “Scully,” she answered crisply.

“Agent Scully,” Agent Chow’s voice was low, and Scully strained to hear it. “I have been politely asked to verify if you and Agent Mulder submitted the correct profile to Chief Corganman this morning.” Agent’s Chow emphasis on the word “politely” implied it was anything but civil.

Scully tensed. “I apologize Agent Chow. I have not had a chance to review it for editing before Agent Mulder sent it,” she answered, looking over at her partner.

“I am unsure what editing would be needed, Agent Scully.” Scully realized that the shakiness in Agent Chow’s voice was from suppressed laughter. “The report consisted of a single word.”

Foreboding filled her. “And what word was that?” Scully asked cautiously.

The answer came from Mulder a split second before Chow’s echoed over the phone: “Woof.”

Scully gritted her teeth and looked away from her partner to keep him from seeing her expression. “Please tell Chief Corganman that the wrong file must have been sent. When we complete our interviews today, I will work with my partner to rectify that situation.” She disconnected before Agent Chow could follow-up on a specific time.

She tucked her phone away and took a couple of cleansing breaths. “Mulder,” she said, once she had calmed a bit. His lips were quirked and he was oozing self-satisfaction from every pore. “Insubordination isn’t popular in the department.”

He met her gaze with a shrug as he pulled into a parking spot of a small apartment complex. “It was succinct and accurate, Scully.”

“It is hardly what is expected from one of the most skilled profilers ever to work in the Behavioral Science Unit,” she pointed out.

“It is completely expected from the X-files.” He unbuckled and exited the car, shedding a few sunflower seed shells. “Martin Castellano works for the kennel around a full time student load at San Francisco State,” he said before shutting the car door.

Scully blinked at his sudden transition in topic, but obediently tucked the file away and shoved it into the glove compartment. Mulder was opening up her door as she checked her gun. While she was surprised he offered a hand with his current disposition, she accepted his assistance without comment.

“I was worried your legs might stick to the seats,” he said, before taking the shallow apartment complex stairs 3 at a time. 

She grimaced at his chaotic mood changes, but caught up with him as he was ringing the buzzer for Martin Castellano on the directory for the second time. 

Reaching past him, she nudged the front door which swung open silently. Being careful to keep the smug expression off her face, she tilted her head to gesture Mulder inside. 

The lobby had a small bank of mailboxes and a single elevator. Mulder glanced at the elevator display that proclaimed the elevator was on the seventh floor and took a detour into the stairwell. “Second floor,” she heard him say above the clumping of his shoes. 

Scully let him go and pushed the elevator button again. Mulder knew she couldn’t take stairs easily with her twisted ankle. Additionally, the skirt was tighter than mummy bandages. 

The elevator opened to have a teenage couple spill out into the lobby. Their arms were linked around each other’s waists and they made an exaggerated show of unlocking to separate around her like the parting of the Red Sea. Their sidelong glares only increased her irritation, but she stepped past them quickly, watching their murky reflections in the elevator walls in case she had misestimated her threat assessment of them. 

They had already re-attached as she depressed the button for the second floor and the door grated shut. She could hear Mulder pounding again on a door upstairs before the elevator lurched into movement. 

Scully took a deep breath for patience. After so many years, she should be immune to Mulder's frustration when she failed to fall in line with his thinking. Mulder was a whirlwind, and his ideas and theories were extensions of him. She admired his passion, but it came at a cost.

Mulder seldom demonstrated detachment from his proposals, such that he often viewed an attack on the theory to be an attack on him. He could brush off the opinions of outsiders; their snarky remarks seemed to be water off a duck’s back. But when *she* disagreed with him, it was like each comment dug under his skin. Scully knew she should be grateful that he valued her opinion, but sometimes the weight of it was a lot to bear.

*********

Agent Mulder burst from the stairwell onto the second floor, trying not to feel guilty about leaving his partner in the lobby. Trying not to feel guilty that he had lashed out at her in the car. The hallway was dim and the air stale and musty.

He made his way down the corridor, locating the apartment quickly and started thumping a fist against the door. “Federal agent,” he yelled, when he realized he had been pounding almost incessantly, taking his anger out on the flimsy paneling.

He had been off-kilter since Scully emerged out of her hotel room in that short skirt and tight jacket. She had looked at him as if waiting for a comment, but for once in his life, he had been made speechless. He handed her the coffee and pastry he had purchased and turned on his heel. It wasn’t until the hotel entrance that he mustered up the means to mutter, “Wait here, I’ll get the car.”

He couldn’t pin down his sense of imbalance. He had seen more skin on her multiple times. He had seen her almost naked on their first case together, and almost as naked when she had vomited after a chemotherapy session and been too weak and tired to change without help. Admittedly, neither instance allowed much time to pause and admire the view.

Mulder stopped knocking for a moment, because his hand was beginning to ache. Guilt start to nip at the corners of his anger. In hindsight, the theory was mostly his, the peace and wine and companionship of last night warping it into a sense that it was a shared theory. He smirked, remembering that she went point by point against it. She would claim it was scientific approach but that approach was also her job. Early in the X-Files, Mulder had been surprised to discover that Scully applied the same strict criticism against her own suppositions. In one case, they had arrested a serial killer she had identified through clues left on victims over 3 states. They had caught the man with a knife poised above the throat of his next victim. Yet Scully's conclusions included a critique against her own autopsy findings. The killer's lawyer used the information at the trial, and the prosecution was only able to get a conviction on attempted murder and murder of one of the three victims. Mulder had witnessed her anger and frustration about the loss of 2 additional murder convictions, but he noted that she did not change her style. Her reports always weighed the strengths and weaknesses of all of the evidence, even that submitted by her.

Mulder checked his weapon. He was confident he was right about this case. He knew his theory in its framework was right. He started knocking on the door again, determined to find the proof Scully needed.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall opened, revealing his partner who paused when he didn’t stop knocking. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Some of her hesitation was trying to hide her injured ankle but she was also gauging him.

Mulder heaved a sigh as she pulled up even to him. The apartment was silent, as was his partner, as he stepped back to lean against the opposite wall. His sudden anger at Scully, at himself, had dissolved away. He offered up an apology in his usual way. “I’m thinking," he said, "parasitic mind control like the Pseudacteon flies which devour the South American ant until it wanders aimlessly for weeks like a zombie before the ant's head detaches.”

Scully goggled at him. “Headless South American ants,” she clarified.

“*Zombie* headless South American ants,” he corrected.

Scully took in a deep breath, and Mulder could tell she was about to tell him he was crazy. Then her eyes narrowed accusingly, before she was definitely trying not to laugh. “Acutally Mulder," she countered seriously. "I think the behavior modification is more like the Glyptapanteles wasps that make gypsy moth caterpillars into zombies which will thrash around fiercely to help protect the wasp larvae.”

Mulder blinked. “Gypsy moth caterpillars."

"*Zombie* gypsy moth caterpillars," she corrected. She nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mulder, the evidence supports that style of parasitic mind control due to the addition of violent action.”

Mulder stared at her and felt a sudden surge of emotion. 

Sometimes his love and attraction for his partner blind-sighted him. It was dangerous for him to put the word “love” so close to his thoughts of Scully, but he had read all the psychiatry research on law enforcement partnership bonds and the similar ones from the military about unit cohesion. Law enforcement partnerships were like the statistics for marriage, but better because they were easier to leave. Coalescing the studies, the conclusions were loosely summarized as a few were bad, some were mediocre, but the bulk were additive and good and a few were excellent and synergistic. The partners in the latter categories valued each other as much or more than their own spouses or family. 

He knew that the mixture of adrenaline and companionship could forge a relationship that felt strong and all-encompassing. But he also knew that some theories emphasized that the feelings were “a temporary and situational” response to danger. Yet, standing next to Scully, watching the corner of her lips twitch because she had both accepted his apology and won this little interchange, he knew theirs was a partnership that achieved a synergy only hinted at in the research. All Mulder could feel was how grateful he was to have her in his life, loving how she was at his side and trusting she was watching his back.

"Scully." Her name was out of his mouth before he knew he was planning to say anything. He realized, he didn't have words to follow and paused.

A low scraping noise came from the apartment rescued him. Scully turned as well but the sound didn’t repeat itself.

Mulder unholstered his weapon. “Did that sound like animals?” he asked. “It sounds like imminent danger, Scully.”

His partner hesitated before drawing her weapon. “I don’t know about imminent, Mulder,” she answered moving in next to him.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “My turn for for pointman.”

“If we are tallying, Mulder, you stole my last turn.” She shrugged him off.

He played his trump card, one he had used effectively in the past and was sure it would be successful again. “Yes, but you don’t believe we have exigency here,” he pointed out. “You need to be able to write in your report: ‘Mulder believed we had an exigent circumstance.’” He could see the words in her future report because she had used that sentence frequently in past ones.

She met his eyes, then stepped to the side. Mulder tipped his gun briefly ceilingward and aimed a strong kick near the doorknob. The way the wood had buckled when he had been knocking, he knew it would be an easy breach. 

The door and casement splintered, and he let his momentum carry him over the threshold, lowering his weapon to cover his area of responsibility. Scully was close behind him sweeping her gun toward his flank and back.

It was a small apartment, not much larger than a studio. Mulder crossed the main room in three strides and pushed open the bathroom door. Within a few seconds, Scully called out “Clear” behind him and he echoed her.

The stench in the apartment was strong--musk, blood and decay. He turned back to the main room to join Scully at the narrow bed. She had flipped a light switch and was pulling on gloves. “You better call it in,” she told him.

The body was obscured by the blanket and sheets but also shredded clothes and rags. Blood had soaked and dried around the neck. Glass shards were scattered around. The victim’s eyes had been gouged and cuts covered every inch of the exposed neck and face that Mulder could see.

He took Scully’s advice and turned away to call dispatch. It helped ease his churning stomach. He could usually stomach most murder scenes—normal or paranormal—but the oppressive smell of the room was getting overwhelming. 

“Good thing Walnut Creek has an official FBI liason and back-up,” he called to Scully over his shoulder. 

She barely gave him a puzzled look before turning back to the victim and running fingers through his scalp. “I am not going to ask you how you know that, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you knew them by na—“

“Andia!” Mulder blared into the phone with false enthusiasm. He paced the room as he went through the proper channels to get a crime scene investigative team to the site, his eyes scanning the mess. 

There were a couple of animal enclosures in opposite corner, both knocked over, open and empty. He frowned, his nerve endings tingling. As he disconnected with Officer Rogers, he moved closer to the nearest one, peering into dark corners and crevices. He scanned the room, looking for any escaped pets. The only access to the outside was the door he had broken open.

Mulder started pushing aside piles of clothes and refuse with his foot, almost stepping in something that looked like a desiccated banana slug. He pulled out a pair of gloves from his pocket. “What type of animals do you think Martin Castellano owned?”

Scully looked over her shoulder. “Hammock, litter box, lots of toys. It looks like a ferret. The smell matches too.”

“Killed by a ferret, how ignominious.”

“Mulder, we have no evidence to support that.”

He flourished a few dog kibbles that he pulled from inside the inverted cage. “Evidence, Scully,” he said.

“Inconclusive, Mulder,” she responded. She turned to look at the other corner of the room. “That other cage housed something large. I think the complex is lucky that heat lamp didn’t catch something on fire.”

Mulder looked up from sealing the dog food in an evidence bag. “Reptile?”

He scanned the room, there were very few large hiding places. Perhaps the ferret slipped out while they were examining the body, but he was sure he would have seen a larger animal escaping. He stepped back toward his partner. “Scully,” he said in a low voice, realizing she was standing next to the largest hiding place, “step away from the bed.”

She looked surprised. "I cleared it, Mul--" she started to say, but then froze. “Mulder.” Her mouth formed his name but no sound emerged.

Scully looked down, and Mulder’s gaze followed hers to the head of a large boa constrictor, starting to curl around her ankle. She jumped away from the snake, but tripped and fell. Mulder managed to catch an arm before she made contact with the floor and he was able to tip her back upright. Still in motion, his hands slid down her leg to intercept the boa who had managed to circle once around her shin.

She bent to help him, and he was pretty sure he heard her muttering under her breath. “I am going to burn this skirt.”

As soon as Scully was freed, Mulder allowed her to pull him into the hallway. She was breathing heavily as she swung the door closed, and he placed a reassuring hand against her arm.

“Well, I guess we know what happened to the ferret,” he said, unsure if the ferret became snake food but knowing she needed a distraction.

Scully leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “That doesn’t explain what happened to Martin Castellano. “

He shook the dog food at her. “I already told you I’m thinking the ferret got him, probably in his sleep. Then in the aftermath, the snake got free.”

Her eyes cracked open. “A ferret made intelligent by dog food wouldn’t have died to a boa constrictor.” She pushed off the wall. “I am *not* going back in there until that snake is caught. It looked to to be at least eight feet long.”

Mulder nodded. “Andia, will be missing my sweet dulcet voice by now anyway, Scully,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “I'll ask her to send over Animal Control. I bet she wishes she never got promoted to Walnut Creek FBI liason alternate.”

“At this moment, I’d trade places with her.” Scully pulled off her gloves. 

“And give up your chance to autopsy Mr. Castellano, Scully?” he said as he punched in the last number. “I’m sure there is a paper to publish in there someplace.”

“Proof before paper.”

*****


	15. Martinez 1:01 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates. This chapter definitely earns the work its "mature" rating because Mulder and Scully often see the gruesome underbelly in their investigations. I tried to gloss over too much gore but I wanted to make sure the glimpse into Mulder and Scully's life was complete. This chapter might be especially hard to read for animal-lovers. If you get queasy, it might be better to skip the next one and a half chapters. Thanks for reading!

Contra Costa County Medical Examiner and Coroner Office  
Martinez  
1:01 PM

Agent Dana Scully paused while peeling away the tattered remnants of Martin Castellano’s t-shirt from his neck, where the dried blood had glued it onto the pale skin. Her cell phone rang again from across the room . The ringing was slightly muffled from being tucked behind her suit in the clothes locker. Scully was happy to be changed into borrowed scrubs, because although the suit was high-quality and comfortable, she had found the stares from other law enforcement officers in the confined area of the Castellano residence to be tedious.

The county medical examiner, Dr. Cork, stopped pulling off the victim’s socks to look across the body at her. “Do you want me to answer that for you?” he asked. Dr. Cork had been more than happy to let her take the lead on the autopsy despite her invasion of his territory. “That way you don’t have to re-glove.”

Scully shook her head, not pointing out to him that if he answered it, he would have to re-glove as well. She knew from their phone signaling system, that it was Mulder and it was lower—but not lowest—priority. 

Mulder’s first call had quit after four rings, indicating he disconnected voluntarily before it went to voicemail. An early disconnection was their signal for lowest priority. When followed by a second call going to voicemail as in this case, it remained low priority but with information to convey. Anything important, Mulder would have let it ring through on the first call, and Scully would have immediately tried to call him back. Anything urgent would be two calls to voicemail. For emergent, they would have been followed by a call to the coroner’s office directly if he couldn’t reach her. 

As expected, her cell phone stopped ringing as the voicemail picked up. Scully went back to the t-shirt tangled in her fingertips. Her ankle throbbed as she stepped around the autopsy bay, peeling back material. She was grateful for Dr. Cork's assistance because his experience helped complete the divestment of the victim swiftly, despite the extra caution needed to keep from cutting themselves upon the numerous pieces of glass embedded on the head and neck. 

Dr. Cork grabbed the camera and waved at her. “Go check your phone, Agent Scully,” he told her. “I’ll get the next set of photographs and then the X-rays. In fact, maybe you should grab something to eat for lunch from the vending machines.”

“Thank you,” Scully agreed, though she wasn’t hungry. She pulled off her gloves and moved her suit in the locker to collect her cell phone. The message from Mulder was two words: “Incoming, Scully.”

Before she could decide if Mulder was referring to a another dead body, himself, or a surprise visit from Section Chief Corganman, a deputy entered the room, moving over to Dr. Cork. “Hey doc,” he greeted before lowering his voice, though it carried because the acoustics of all of the hard surfaces. “They found another one. Pretty gruesome. Tanisha Long. They’ll—um—gather her and send her.”

Scully frowned. “Gather” sounded ominous. It would be a long afternoon.

She moved to tuck the phone in her pocket before remembering that her scrubs didn't have any. Plucking a few dollars from her suit, she hand carried them with her cell phone and wandered into the hallway while Dr. Cork started the second set of photographs of the naked body. He and the detective had moved on to discussing the latest football game.

The break-room vending machines had an assortment of junk food and a row of sandwiches best left alone if she wanted to stay off an autopsy bed herself. Scully took the opportunity to feed her thirst instead of her stomach with a soda. She sat in a corner table in the empty room and propped up her injured ankle.

The crime scene investigation of the Castellano residence had taken the bulk of the morning, with a good chunk of it spent waiting for someone who had experience catching snakes. The Walnut Creek FBI relations officer had spent a remarkable amount of time giving advice to the crime scene investigators and on the phone to the closest FBI field office.

Scully was sure that Officer Rogers had been the driving force behind Mulder trying to ditch the scene prematurely. Once Animal Control arrived, Mulder had been gunning to investigate other locations, especially since there was a delay in the first capture attempt while the correct equipment was located. 

Rogers had brought paperwork to the scene for interdepartmental cooperation. When she wasn't on the phone, she had followed Mulder around relentlessly. She had wanted signatures and viewed Mulder as team lead. Mulder had only so many places to go in the small crime scene to avoid the woman.

Scully had not wanted to argue with her partner with all the investigators milling around, but Mulder had been ignoring her objections to his departure with a focus only on “getting the hell out of dodge.” She didn't want to nag him to be careful, but he always benefited from a reminder that he was safer with backup and following procedures. She wasn’t proud of it, but she had pretended to stumble slightly on her twisted ankle and rested a shoulder against the corridor wall. 

Mulder’s concentration had immediately moved from the elevator door to her. “You okay Scully?” he queried.

“Yes, I’m fine” she had answered tightly in a low voice that the other officers would be unable to hear. “Mulder, I will be working on Castellano's autopsy. I want you to promise you won’t enter either residence without exigency and definitely without backup.”

He matched her low tone. “Don’t worry, Scully,” he had assured her, placing a hand on her lower back to steady her. “I took that ferret-wrestling class at Quantico last year. I’m certified.”

“You’re certified,” she had agreed with a tight smile before he resumed his beeline for the elevator.

After signing the paperwork Officer Rogers had been waving around, Scully had started her field report during the pandemonium of the boa capture. The mayhem provided plenty of time to type up preliminary external findings for Castellano before he was bagged and to start a profile for the killer in the Brants case in the event Mulder was too busy to create one. She hoped he wouldn't insist on keeping to his original statement.

Once captured, she had noted the boa didn’t show an obvious lump to support Mulder’s ferret dinner theory, but ferrets were skinny. The snake had multiple injuries—many to the bone—as if it had been fighting, a fact she conveyed to her partner when he called from the Henlan residence. Henlan wasn’t there, but conveniently, the landlord was in the apartment fixing a faulty toilet and had let Mulder look around without complaint. 

By the time the Walnut Creek FBI liason alternate—looking a lot more muddled—had given Scully a ride to the local medical examiner’s office, Scully had called Dennis to find an expert in exotic animals to examine the snake. It had been a long morning.

Dr. Cork entered the break room and crossed to her table. “X-ray’s are done,” he told her. “Prints too. Sent the clothes to the lab.”

She nodded, standing, careful not to wince as she put weight on her ankle. She tossed her empty can into the nearest recycling container and followed the medical examiner back to the autopsy bay. “Hopefully they can pick up something fiber-wise.” She had to swallow the words “not related to ferrets”

Scully suppressed a sigh, re-gloved and got ready to start an inventory of moles, scars, and wounds on Castellano. Dr. Cork was removing urine as she carefully plucked out pieces of glass. It looked like the remnants of a handful of drinking glasses. As she worked out the twentieth shard, it occurred to her that she should have eaten lunch after all, because it wasn't just a long morning, it was going to be long day.

Tashisha Long’s body arrived as Scully was midway through making her Y-incision on Castellano. Dr. Cork stepped away from assisting to remove his gloves and sign for delivery. Scully cringed as she heard Long’s body bag transferred from the gurney to the second table. It made sloshy, squishy noises. She also noted that the bag was not body-shaped.

As Scully completed the incision and pulled the layers apart, she heard Dr. Cork unzipping Long’s body bag behind her. It was followed closely by the unpleasant sound of retching and vomiting. She glanced over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of a torn torso and the jagged edges of bone as Dr. Cork retched again while he covered the body back up.

He fetched a mop. “Ugh, sorry,” he muttered. “I have a weak stomach for dismemberment and pieces.” 

Scully answered in sympathy and no small amount of dread, “I think we all do.” Turning back to Castellano to give Dr. Cork privacy, she grabbed the rib shears. It saddened her to know that she had actually seen worse in her career, but she was now grateful she had skipped lunch. 

If that was the condition of the body, Mulder would be at that crime scene through the afternoon. She surreptitiously rotated her injured ankle to relieve some discomfort, knowing she would be chained to this room for longer than that.

 

*********

Agent Mulder walked through the house again, stepping over the larger spots of blood on the carpet and taking equal care to avoid the crime scene investigators dusting for prints and looking for clues. They were doing their job a bit sloppily and very noisily as everyone on site had already closed this case in their mind.

Tanisha Long had been ripped apart by her three border collies who then proceeded to fight each other to the death. The time of death for human and canine occupants was unclear but estimated to be yesterday. The bloodied dog corpses were tucked right inside the door waiting to be bagged and carried away but out of the view of the crowd of neighbors trying to see past the police tape. 

Mulder was looking for dog food. There was none that he could find near the dog bowls or in the pantry or the garage. The large dog food container had been tipped over and was empty. 

Digging through the trash, he had found one empty can of dog food, which he had promptly bagged and hidden in a deep coat pocket, unwilling to turn it over to the local law enforcement. It matched the cans at the Dennison house, the one Carolyn Dennison used to feed Crayon in the morning before he went on his wild rampage.

In an upper bedroom of the townhouse, brochures and literature for Animal Assistance were spread over a desk. Tanisha Long had taken her marketing job for the company seriously with many pamphlets having notations and marks suggesting color changes or a different turn of phrase. He ruffled a gloved hand through the stacks. Compared to the rest of the house, the study was messy.

Mulder took a step back, almost to the hallway and looked over the room again. The room was one of the few in the house that was blood free, the downstairs bathroom being the other. The rest of the house had been covered with tufts of dog fur, pieces of flesh, and puddles of blood all like a horror film gloss over an undercoat of normality. The carnage had been breathtaking and spectacular in the absolute worse way possible. It had taken multiple officers to gather body parts and parts of body parts and pieces of parts of body parts. Mulder was sure there were fragments of dog mixed in with the human ones, but by the time the collection had been done, most of the collectors wanted nothing more to do with the remains.

Mulder glanced into the hallway with its multiple framed pictures equidistant apart. Tanisha Long had been a neat freak. Her cupboards were organized and alphabetized with all labels facing forward. Her sinks had soap, sanitizer and air freshener dispensers in a uniform order and in a straight line. Despite three dogs, there were no muddy paw prints, no dust bunnies, no dog nose prints against the glass.

It made her study with its haphazard stacks of papers, leaning piles of labeled folders, crooked bookshelves and open cabinets out of place. It had been searched, Mulder was sure, and not by dogs. 

There was no way to know if the searcher had been Long herself or an intruder, or if they had found what they were looking for. He had carefully examined the room himself. Without any evidence of foul play in the study, the police had mostly left him alone in his search. He had looked for false drawers, secret stashes, safes, any place someone could hide evidence of controversial research. It puzzled him why someone involved with marketing would be recruited for a secret project.

As he ran fingers under the windowsill, a motion outside caught his attention and he spotted a police car and a truck pulling up to the curb across the street.

Officer Andia Rogers stepped out of the passenger side of the police car and Mulder cringed, anticipating more paperwork. Michael Dennison climbed out of the truck, and Mulder wondered if he had been requested by Officer Rogers or by Scully.

He suspected the former because he had not heard from Scully all afternoon despite leaving a couple of messages. Mulder had left the first message when the remains of Tanisha Long had been removed from the premises. 

He had left a second message when he had checked his emails and found Scully had sent him a first draft of a replacement profile for the killer of David and Jennie Brants. It was several sentences longer than a single word. After an initial wave of exasperation, Mulder had to admit that for a generalized profile, it was well-written. 

Scully’s profile covered the irregularity of the murder target, the lack of a struggle, the lying in wait, and the choice of the murder weapon. He knew Corganman wouldn’t read “family pet” into Scully’s summary description of “a trusted individual with access to the premises, familiarity with location and family habits, inability to obtain advanced weaponry, and a lack of fear of reprisal from law enforcement,” but for someone who knew her well, “dog” was all Mulder read. 

Leaning back away from the study, Mulder resigned himself to another conversation with Officer Andia Rogers. Because of the onset of evening, he flipped on the light switch for a last look around the desk. The lamp flickered and went out with a crackling sound. 

Mulder tilted the lamp toward him. Taped to the socket base was a memory card. He quickly detached it, his gloves sticking to the tape with a vengeance. It could have nothing to do with the case but his intuition told him otherwise. 

“Agent Mulder?” called Officer Rogers from somewhere downstairs, and he turned to follow her voice. 

Dennis was at the base of the stairs, looking over the bodies of the dogs. He started to greet Mulder somberly but was interrupted when Officer Rogers crowded past him. 

“There you are Agent Mulder,” she said. “I don’t think the Bay Area has had so much excitement since the last earthquake. I contacted Dr. Dennison here since he had helped with getting an exotic animal specialist to help with that snake this morning. He says he can help with the pathologies in this animal attack.”

“I didn’t know that Orinda was in your catchment area,” Mulder pointed out mostly to get a word in.

“It’s not. I’m on loan because Orinda doesn’t have a liaison, and they figured I had all the needed paperwork ready.”

Mulder took the folder and pen without complaint and turned to Dennison. “Are you in charge of the pathologies on these killer dogs?”

Dennis was looking past the entryway at the evidence of carnage beyond. “It’s pretty gruesome,” he said. “I don’t understand how it could happen. Border collies are herding dogs, not hunting. I can’t imagine them tearing limbs off people. Their temperament isn’t the type to be aggressive in that fashion.”

“Are they too far dead to draw blood and spinal fluid?”

“No…” Dennis said, prodding one of the paws. “Rigor mortis has set in, but I should be able to get some decent samples.”

Officer Rogers grabbed the sleeve of a passing officer. “Can you get those dogs into Dr. Dennison’s truck? Get someone to move the neighbors out of the way so he can pull into the driveway.” 

Dennis smiled at the officer who had been volunteered and fished out his truck keys. He turned back to Mulder. “Carrie and I were going to invite you and Dana over again tonight, but it looks like everyone will be working late.”

Mulder shrugged. “Yeah, the back-to-back autopsies will occupy Scully for a while, especially this one.”

“Maybe another night if you both are in town for long. I know you probably would like to solve this case.” Dennis looked down as an officer wrapped one of the dogs in a thick plastic bag. “I’m lucky; I have a cadre of veterinary students who will be happy to help with the pathologies.” 

Once the crowd of neighbors was dispersed, it was an easy transfer of the dogs into the back of truck. Mulder followed him out. “Let me know what you find,” he said, as Dennis climbed in and started the car.

“Sure thing. Oh, and Agent Mulder, thanks for sending out that FBI Animal Behaviorist to take Crayon. I wasn’t sure what to do with him, because logically, if he isn’t safe, he would need to be put down.”

Mulder put a hand on the truck door. “We didn’t send anyone out.”

“What?” Dennis froze. “My tech said, the man had a badge.” He banged a fist on the steering wheel. “Damn, we should have called you for verification before releasing Crayon.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Grey. Walker Grey.”

“Maybe I should follow you. Do you have surveillance cameras so I can review the tapes?”

Dennis shook his head. “But you can talk with my staff.” He gave Mulder a half-hearted grin. “And there are never too many hands on deck when there are three pathologies to perform. Maybe we can race Dana and be done before her.”

“Scully warned me about your fondness for slicing open bloated cows.”

“Why, Agent Mulder,” Dennis laughed, “I think that’s actually a joke from you. I was beginning to think you were always serious.”

Mulder responded with the absolute truth, “Then you don’t know me very well.” He added in his thoughts: unlike Scully. 

He pulled out the rental car keys and then he followed it with another absolute truth. “I just want to get away from the on-loan alternate FBI liaison.”

*********** 


	16. Martinez 8:55PM

Chapter 16:  
Contra Costa County Medical Examiner and Coroner  
Martinez  
8:55 PM

Dr. Scully washed her hands and forearms for a third time. She wished she could clean her memories as well, because the autopsy on Tanisha Long felt permanently burned into her retinas. Scully was sure her scrubs and skin and hair were saturated with the smell of old blood. 

Tanisha Long’s torso and most of her head had been intact but the remainder of the body had to be assembled like a morose jigsaw puzzle before the autopsy could “officially” begin with photographs of the deceased. Dr. Long had shown her pictures of the crime scene, and it appeared that pieces of the victim had been scattered throughout the six bedroom house.

Over the course of the autopsy, serous fluids had slowly pooled around the fragments, eventually dripping onto the floor despite their best efforts to keep it contained. 

Yes, Scully had seen worse in her tenure with the X-Files, but it didn’t make her immune to the carnage. It didn’t help that, for this case, she knew that it had been miraculous luck in timing and circumstance that had kept her from being the body on the autopsy table. 

Scully had locked her revulsion away with a combination of experience and sheer willpower. Despite his greater number of decades as a medical examiner, Dr. Cork had fared worse, emptying his stomach twice more that evening, as he separated human from canine flesh. He had been smart enough to keep a convenient bucket nearby to keep from interrupting the workflow. The ragged scraps of the victim had ensured both of them had operated efficiently, wanting the evening to end as soon as possible.

Scully dried her hands thoroughly. While she didn’t want to squeeze back into her suit, the Tanisha Long autopsy had been messy and her borrowed scrubs had collected too many spots and splatters to consider wearing any longer. Dr. Cork had played the exemplary host and allowed her to use the changing room first. 

After dumping the scrubs into the laundry bin, she squirmed back into her skirt, skipping the hose. She considered putting Mulder’s messages on speaker phone while she changed, but easily suppressed the temptation because the changing room was little more than a glorified bathroom. Spacious but with an abundance of sound-reflective surfaces. 

The back-to-back autopsies had left her with the bone-deep weariness that came from bending over a corpse combined with the mental strain of hopeless anger over the senselessness over the butchery. Despite the victims being complete strangers, she felt her usual clinical detachment was hanging from a thread.

As the last of the soap bubbles spun down the drain, Scully took a deep breath, knowing she would have to let go of the images in order to solve the case.

Straightening her gun and holster under her jacket, Scully moved back into the main room. Dr. Cork and the night staff had moved quickly. The body had been wrapped and removed to refrigeration, and the table had been cleaned thoroughly. She gave a tight smile to the medical examiner and he moved into the changing room.

Scully looked at her phone and saw she had missed several calls. She hit speed dial on her cell, knowing it would be faster to get an update directly from her partner instead of wading through his voicemails. She hoped he was nearby; she didn’t want to spend one more second in the morgue than needed.

“Mulder.” He picked up before the first ring completed.

“Mulder, it’s me.” She hesitated, knowing she should apprise him about preliminary autopsy findings or ask him for an update about the crime scenes, but at the moment wanting to do neither. “I’m hungry.” She pressed her lips together after the words slipped out and came across as childish to her ears.

He chuckled, and the sound reduced her fatigue. “You’re lucky, partner,” he said, “the officer in the family receiving room recommended a good Mexican restaurant nearby. I picked up some takeout.” 

Scully’s pressed a hand over her growling stomach. She was *not* about to complain to her partner about his unhealthy food choices. “Mulder, please tell me that family members were kept away from the autopsy room.” She looked over at the large one-way mirror along the wall, knowing that law enforcement, students or the press sometimes came for viewings. “Neither body was in a condition appropriate for families to see.” 

The main door to the room swung open, and she turned to see Mulder standing on the threshold with one hand holding his phone to his ear and the other on the automatic door button. He disconnected. “No, the receiving room is down the hall and has no access to the autopsy bays,” he explained as he approached. “Frankly, Scully, I don’t think either body was in condition for *anyone* to see, not just families.” His grim face told her that he had been on the other side of the one-way mirror for some of the autopsy. “An officer provided a picture to Tanisha Long’s sister. It didn’t go past the shoulders and the head was angled to avoid the side that looked like a chew toy,” he assured her.

Scully nodded and pocketed her phone. Beyond Mulder, the hallway was dimly lit. The morgue had emptied out of most personnel by 5pm. The common justification for banking hours among coroners and forensic pathologists was that “they’ll still be dead tomorrow”. However, both she and Dr. Long had known that once started, there was no definable stopping point for Tanisha Long’s autopsy except its completion.

She caught Mulder’s gaze dropping to her ankle then back up. She tensed, but knew that the purple had deepened and had the added puffy sheen of swelling. The bruise was no longer camouflaged by her hose. Overall, her ankle had moved past the painful stage, dampened with some ibuprofen, and now was only numb and stiff. “I’m fine, Mulder,” she stated firmly.

Dr. Cork emerged from the changing room in casual jeans and a polo. “I hear a really tall bottle of whiskey calling my name.” he said more to himself than to them.

“You’ll forward preliminary toxicology reports to the Sacramento Field Office?” Mulder didn’t bother with introductions. 

At his nod, Scully stepped forward to shake Dr. Cork’s hand. “I’ll send you the write-ups for the autopsy drafts by tomorrow evening so you can edit them and add them to the final reports,” she offered. “It was a pleas—It was—Thank you for the assistance.” She winced at stumbling over the general niceties but she couldn’t bring herself to claim the afternoon had any pleasantness to it.

Dr. Cork seemed to understand. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Scully, but I hope I never see you again.”

 

*************** 

Mulder guided his partner to the rental car. He was proud that he managed to do it without seeming to hover over her, despite thinking they would be much faster if he scooped her up. Because of a strong sense of self-preservation, he didn’t vocalize the offer or image. 

However, he indulged himself by placing a light hand on her lower back at each change of direction, ready to grab her if she stumbled on her injured ankleHe also made sure to open every door along the way. . Although she walked slowly, it was without a limp.

As he unlocked the passenger door, the smell of dinner wafted out. Mulder was pretty sure he heard Scully’s stomach rumble in anticipation as she dropped bonelessly onto the seat. He hid a smile, and leaned over her while she was buckling her seatbelt. When he handed her a bag of tortilla chips, his partner accepted it with more enthusiasm than grace. 

“How long since you’ve had something to eat?” he asked, suspecting it had been the pastry he bought her in the morning.

“I had something at lunch,” she answered. Scully closed the car door, cutting him off from any additional questions about her eating habits, and Mulder inferred it was a half-truth. No wonder she could squeeze into that tight suit if she was missing meals. 

Scully had already munched her way through a handful of chips by the time he circled the car and started it. The case file dropped—neglected—onto the floor of the car, and she was wiping the extra grease onto a napkin. 

Mulder noted how the few bites had provided Scully enough energy to neatly fold the napkin and tuck it under the knee closest to him and place a clean one in her lap. Her double napkin routine when she wore suits was one of the first habits he noted about her. He realized he could name more behaviors he associated with his partner than with himself. 

He handed her a soda after a few more chips. “Was it a ferret?” he asked.

Scully ate another chip before answering. “There were no teeth marks,” she said. “It looked more like alcohol poisoning. Maybe a drug overdose but we won’t know until the tox screen is back.”

“Shards of glass slicing up the neck, face and jugular is not alcohol poisoning,” he pointed out.

“Mulder, evidence against one theory is not support for a ferret attack, either,” she responded.

He didn’t look at her, despite the starting reverberations of annoyance. 

This afternoon, after working with the veterinarian for several hours, Mulder had sat in the county coroner’s viewing area, watching Scully work. He had observed Scully grind her way through the latter half of the Long autopsy, organizing and rearranging pieces of bone and flesh, and he had promised himself that tonight he would keep everything positive for the remainder of the day. 

Mulder had initially chosen the viewing room because it had a large, unused desk where he could spread out the preliminary pictures and X-rays from Martin Castellano autopsy. Different morgue staff and police officers drifted in and out of the viewing room treating the victim’s autopsy as a spectacle, but most left sickened within minutes. 

However as the hours passed, he could see the fatigue overtake his partner. She had her best doctor mask on, but he knew her well enough to recognize the growing strain under it. Each time she limped to a new spot at the autopsy table or rotated her neck and shoulders to relieve stress, he promised himself to be on his best behavior.

“Killer ferrets should be on all lists of possibilities, Scully,” he said with a smirk.

A couple of chips later, she said. “I read the edits you made for the report to Corganman. They looked good.” 

Mulder recognized it as Scully’s own peace offering. “Something expected from one of the most skilled profilers ever to work in the Behavioral Science Unit?” He used her phrasing but kept the tone light.

“Only an X-Files veteran would recognize it as otherwise.” She gave him the first small smile of the night.

It was enough to spark a wave of contentment through him and he wondered when his emotions had become so tied to his partner. Scully was the only one who could run him through a spectrum of emotions in the course of minutes. A threat to her well-being could turn him violent faster than any menace to himself.

Mulder tamped down a sigh. When he had first read Sternberg’s theory of triangular love at Oxford, he had given it little more thought than what he needed to learn for the midterm. His undergraduate and subsequent research had concentrated on the darker side of human nature. 

Yet, in her presence, he found himself contemplating the model more often. Sternberg’s eight categories of love were based upon the quality of the elements—intimacy, commitment and passion. Sternberg had defined passion as emotional and physiological arousal, and considering how often he had to quash it, Mulder knew he experienced both aspects of that definition. He made a leap of belief that had settled deep in his bones that Scully did too. It was ironic that he was often scouring their interactions for the proof to support that belief. 

He suppressed another sigh. “What sound does a ferret make, Scully? In case I need to submit a profile for Martin Castelleno’s killer.”

She scoffed, looking into her emptying bag of chips. “I don’t think Corganman will be asking.”

Mulder handed her his bag of chips and tried to be casual as he told her, “The Orinda police department is having officers from the crime scene talk to a psychologist due to the unusually brutal circumstances. They have extended the offer to us as well.” 

Scully looked up from her snack, surprised. “I hope you told Officer Rogers that it is unnecessary on my account.”

“She’ll be disappointed. I’m sure she has a form to sign.”

“Paperwork if I refuse?” Scully asked as she pulled out another chip. “Or if I accept?”

“Probably both,” he admitted. Mulder stared at the road, trying not to watch Scully lick the salt from her lips. 

“I have my own personal psychologist if I need one,” she said finally.

Mulder gave her a quick glance with raised eyebrows, realizing she meant him. While they had long conversations into the night, Scully rarely touched on her deeper feelings with him. “Who keeps you sane or drives you crazy?”

“Depends on the day, Mulder.” She smiled into the bag. “Today, it’s keeping me sane.” 

He felt a wave of warmth at her words and decided to bask in it. The remainder of their trip to the hotel was quiet, interrupted only by the sound of tires against the road and Scully’s continued snacking as she polished off both bags.

Mulder was lucky to find a parking space near the hotel entrance. He managed to whisk the rest of the take-out bags and the garment bag out of the back seat before Scully could open her car door. When she looked to shake off his offered hand, he told her, “Your ankle needs to be elevated, Scully. I know you won’t let me carry you, but you could at least lean on me if you need it.”

He waited out her hesitance, and smiled when she acquiesced and linked her arm through his elbow. “We can elevate your leg in your room and I’ll get some ice.”

“I missed when you received your medical degree, Mulder,” she said pointedly. Entering the lobby, Scully looked at the garment bag he had draped partly over his shoulder as he balanced his drink and the food. He hit the elevator call button. “Dr. Dennison sent more clothes from his department store friend,” he explained. 

She nodded. “I didn’t get a chance to call the airline today. I hope the skirts are longer.”

Mulder bit down the reflex response that he preferred them short. “They are. You could make 3 of your skirts from one of the ones in here,” he assured her.

“I don’t know if I should be more worried that you looked in the bag or that you know the ratio for sizes,” she mumbled on the elevator ride upward

They settled in the front room of her hotel suite. The blanket he had used the other night had been folded neatly by housekeeping and the pillows stacked on the corner of the couch. After seating her into the opposite corner, he handed her a carnitas burrito.

As she unwrapped it, he eased off her shoes, causing her to jerk with surprise but he didn’t give her a chance to pull away as he raised her feet onto the coffee table. Despite the temptation, he made sure his fingers didn’t linger. 

He dropped into the chair next to the couch and grabbed his carne asada burrito. “The Animal Assistance Manager, Wharton, called the closest Field Office to see if we did any dog-napping,” he told her.

Scully paused with the burrito halfway to her mouth. “Dog napping?”

“It seems that they’re missing a dog.”

“Venus,” she said and he nodded his confirmation. “So the dog who helped against Crayon…”

He nodded again. “I would say it was Venus. She made a jailbreak.”

Scully frowned. “That is highly unlikely Mulder,” she said. “It is more likely that someone did dognap her. Perhaps one of the trainers if she was so valuable.”

“That doesn’t explain how she appeared several miles away and just in time to save you from becoming a doggy treat.”

Scully appeared thoughtful and didn’t reply. Mulder watched her take a bite of her burrito, the guacamole making a cameo appearance on her upper lip before her tongue lapped it away. He looked away so she wouldn’t catch him swallowing hard, at the thought of chasing the food and her tongue back into her mouth. And--he berated himself, strongly--that covers another an unnecessary example of physiological arousal. Mulder knew his level of feeling for his partner met the trifecta of Sternberg’s theory, so he was starting to find these unexpected examples bothersome in their frequency. 

He concentrated on his own food and wasn’t surprised when he had finished his burrito and 3 rolled tacos in the space it took Scully to eat half of hers. He drained his iced tea and bounced to his feet.

Sliding her laptop over the coffee table, he sat down next to her, pulling out the memory card he had found at the Long residence.

“What is that?” Scully asked, making room on the coffee table by sliding her injured ankle onto the chair he had just vacated. She set the remainder of her burrito on a spare napkin and moved her drink away from spilling range

“Tanisha Long’s study had all the signs of a search," he explained, "and I found this in the lamp.”

“In the lamp,” she repeated, though he suspected it was for her own benefit and not his. “And somehow it made it into your pocket instead of an evidence bag. Is that card a risk to my computer, Mulder? The bureau just replaced my cell phone, and I hate to fill out a requisition form for a replacement laptop.”

“Where is my partner that likes to live life on the edge?”

She rolled her eyes. “That partner is you looking in the mirror, Mulder.”

He snorted and pushed the memory card in the slot. “No smoke,” he assured her. She leaned closer as he opened the files. “Not much in the folder either. A couple of brochures, images, handouts and a powerpoint presentation.”

“The folder is labeled Stampede Corporation,” Scully pointed out. She pushed his hand lightly to take control of the touchpad. “The properties show everything is dated within the past month. Mulder, didn’t you say that Tanisha Long was an employee of Animal Assistance?”

“Part time for years but practically full time. Quite a big bonus and benefit package too. Low-six figures.”

“These files are all created by Tanish Lang with Stampede Corporation.”

“Why does Stampede Corporation sound familiar?”

She gave him a significant look. “It’s a very large international pet food manufacturer, Mulder. I would say over a third of the dog food worldwide is made by Stampede. Queequag liked their Bacony Bits.”

She opened the powerpoint presentation and started clicking through the slides. “This talks about a new dogfood product that improves muscle deposition, conformation and training ability. Look Mulder, here is the protein we found. It’s labeled Elif3.”

He leaned in and jabbed a finger at her screen. “What about those other molecules they have pictured?”

Scully was silent as she scrolled through several more slides. “Zorataline and galenbuterol,” she read “It’ll take me a while to puzzle these out.”

Mulder tried to be patient but wasn’t sure if it was more than a minute before he said, “I’m thinking corporate espionage, Scully," he proposed. "What if Tanisha Long was stealing research but not knowing the full extent of what she was stealing?”

“And the secret government conspiracy discovered it and killed off SAC Brants?”

He sat back so he wouldn’t glare at his partner. When Scully said it like that, it sounded ridiculous. “That’s not exactly the line I was drawing.”

“Because it isn’t a line, Mulder.” She opened another file. “This document shows a Stampede manufacturing site near Sacramento. If you really think the company has been putting these drugs in the dog food, it would be worth visiting.”

Mulder debated suggesting they grab the car keys and go visit the company right away. He reminded himself that he had planned to be a good partner, and good partners don't drag each other to a possible crime scene after 9 hours bent over an autopsy table. Scully was looking over the molecular shapes again, and he knew it would take her time to process their mechanisms of action and how to fit it into their—his—theory. 

He jumped to his feet again. 

“Corganman and Chow are calling us in for a teleconference with DC tomorrow morning. We can visit Stampede afterward. Maybe they give tours.”

She nodded, leaning forward to grab a pen and paper to start scribbling some figures on it, obviously not fully listening to him.

“I’ll get that ice, Scully,” Mulder offered. “And why don’t you hand me your jacket and gun so you can relax.”

She spared him a startled glance but didn’t object. Her attention intensely back on her laptop screen, she shed her jacket. 

He took it to her closet as she unbuckled her holster. “I’ll run you a bath, too,” he said.

“Who are you?” Her consideration finally left her computer and she was looking at him closely. “And what have you done with my partner?”

He grinned at her. "I'm sanity, Scully. You said so yourself." 

******


	17. Vallejo 5:10AM

Vallejo, California  
5:10 AM

Special Agent Dana Scully awoke while her hotel room was still hidden in darkness. Resting uncomfortably on her stomach, she was unable to pinpoint why she had roused. However, she knew instantly what kept her from falling back into a blissful slumber.

It was the handcuffs linked around her right wrist. 

A surge of panic swept through her, but she squelched it, keeping her eyes closed and her breathing even. Although she resisted the urge to sit up and yank on the cuffs, she couldn't hide the bone chill that ran down her exposed arm, chased by a wave of goose bumps. Instinct told her that the handcuffs were standard Bureau issue, possibly her own.

A Mulder joke, she half-wished, but it definitely was not her partner's type of humor. Sarcasm and irony, yes. Sharp, sometimes biting, inappropriate needles of wit, certainly. But practical jokes played on an exhausted partner? No, not Mulder. Scully pulled against the metal restraint slowly, experimentally, but it refused to yield.

She was fastened to the headboard. The bedspread had slipped down during the night, leaving her shoulders bare, her back exposed to an unknown danger. Heart rate accelerating, Scully listened carefully, but the room was silent. She pressed down on the hope that threatened to bubble through her. Realistically, her captor would not restrain her only to abandon her.

Scully cracked her eyes open, sleep now a distant, fond memory. From her vantage point, the hotel room from the bed to the windows was empty. The stack of clothing loaned to her by Carolyn Dennison appeared untouched on the desktop but her laptop was closed and she knew she had left it open last night after moving from the front room of the suite. 

A sliver of moonlight filtered through the curtains, coloring her surroundings pale shades of gray. Her nightstand drawer was half-open, as she had left it. Her gun gleamed invitingly, reflecting the limited light. Alight danced through the darkness behind her. A flashlight, she guessed.

Straining to listen again, this time she heard the faint rustle of a page turning behind her. Although Scully had already surmised the presence of an intruder, the confirming noise and its proximity made her mind scream. She had left the case file summary next to her laptop.

Scully had a fleeting wish that she could wake up to an obnoxious radio announcer like half of America. With her right hand restricted and the extra distance added from the round mattress, she estimated her pistol was barely within reach. It would be a stretch, but at her height, she was used to stretching. 

She would be forced into another clumsy left-handed maneuver, a definite disadvantage. The million dollar question was whether the effort would reward her with a bullet in the back before she brought the gun around. 

It wasn't much of a question. She could wonder if she would earn a bullet by debating the issue too long though it was oddly reassuring that someone would restrain her instead of killing her in the first place. There was value in her life, at least for a little while.

Mulder wouldn't have wasted time pondering the question. It continued to amaze her that a man of his intelligence used his brain only in the interludes between his sweeps of action. Unfair, she chided herself, but she didn't dwell on the matter further.

Scully inched her free hand forward. It whispered along the cotton sheets, loud to her ears in the quiet room. Instead of freezing at the sound, she rushed the movement, knowing her chance was evaporating with the noise she made.

Her palm slapped against the reassuring feel of cold metal, and she rolled onto her back on the bed. The handcuffs rattled against the headboard. Her right wrist twisted painfully in the steel as she swung her pistol around. 

But as fast as she was, her intruder was faster. She felt the bed tilt with his weight and an arm slipped under her elbow and wrapped toward her neck tilting the weapon skyward. Fingers pressed into her metacarpal pressure points and the weapon was wrenched from her grip with the ease of a professional. She thought she heard a growl from the bathroom.

The man’s voice was low and warning. "Not allowed, Agent Scully."

Scully twisted and dead-weighted down to try to slide out of the intruder's grip. Following with a back elbow, she threw as much force into it as she could manage. Her elbow connected with a satisfying crunch, and there was a deep grunt. But the intruder only removed himself and her gun from the bed. She heard him place the pistol out of reach on the dresser before he turned on a lamp.

Although the light was blinding, she refused to blink. Her elbow throbbed painfully, so she knew she had done a bit of damage despite his lack of expression. She opened her mouth to yell Mulder’s name but froze when she saw him pull his own gun from his holster.

Okay, strategy change, she decided. The intruder knew her name, though Scully had long ago eliminated the theory that her situation was a stranger's random bondage fantasy gone awry. She wiggled into a more comfortable sitting position to relieve the pressure on her wrist. 

Looking toward the bathroom, she was not surprised to see a large black dog sitting in the shadows. Venus, she was sure, but missing the collar she had been wearing at the kennel. Scully tried to read Venus for level of aggression but there was neither lip curl nor tail wagging. Uncomfortable, Scully scanned the room for other intruders. 

"Who are you?" she demanded after assuring herself there were none, keeping her voice as low and warning as his had been. "What are you doing in my room?" 

His face was impassive, younger than she had expected. A strong nose and chin balanced eyes which would have seemed innocent if she weren't held hostage by them. She wished she had Mulder's memory, but the man was unfamiliar.

"I have information about your current case." He moved to the chair between the dresser and desk. 

"Then you have the wrong room," Scully corrected him coldly, resisting the urge to pull the covers up to her neck. The nightgown Carrie had loaned to her was more feminine than practical. Luckily, it wasn't overly revealing, but with the tension clogging her veins she felt almost naked. If she had known she would have nighttime visitors, she would have worn those wrinkled blue scrubs again. 

She tried not to glare. "Agent Mulder is the one who listens to unknown sources."

A grin with straight, white teeth flashed at her. "Agent Mulder is--how shall I describe it?--a more 'dangerous' man to approach on my terms," he explained. "It is more difficult to estimate when he allows sleep to lower his guard, especially if he only returned to his room in the last hour."

I'll show you dangerous, Scully thought, glancing over to her removed weapon on the dresser. Then she registered what the man implied. Afterward, I’ll show Mulder dangerous too, she thought, for tearing off without her again. "At least my partner may have listened to whatever you lies you throw at us. *I* see no reason to believe you."

The man drew his own pistol from a side holster. "Point taken. I could be speaking to your partner, but after review of your profiles, I thought it best I communicate with both of you.” He smiled neutrally and carefully attached a silencer to the gun. "Perhaps you would do me the favor of calling Agent Mulder over here tonight. Tell him you'd like to discuss the case."

As she shook her head, she knew she risked angering the man, but he couldn't realistically expect her to cooperate easily, to phone her partner and say 'Mulder, come to my room and meet an attack dog and someone who carries around a gun with a silencer.’

"I think you've mistaken my title," Scully answered, trying to read the man's face. "It's 'doctor Scully' or 'agent Scully', *not* telephone operator." Only part of her was upset that she appeared to have developed Mulder's sarcasm under crisis, not the most valuable asset. 

The intruder's smile didn't falter. "Please, Agent Scully," he said, leveling the gun at her, "expand your horizons." 

From the bathroom, Venus growled, but Scully didn’t want to look away from the gun to see if the dog was a bigger threat. She took large satisfaction in seeing the man's cheekbone starting to darken from her previous elbow throw.

When Scully didn't move, the man smoothly tilted his weapon and fired a bullet into the ceiling, the sound muffled by a silencer. A bit of white plaster sprinkled the bedspread on her lap. Scully bit her lip painfully, but managed not to flinch. She was thankful the honeymoon suite was on the top floor. Venus barked at the display, and Scully hoped it was loud enough to alert Mulder.

The man didn't make a second request; he merely leveled the gun in her direction again. They stared at each other. Suddenly, Venus barked again and moved to jump on the bed. She was just out of Scully’s reach, or more importantly, Scully was out of hers. 

Scully picked up the room phone reluctantly. The stranger reached across the desk with his other hand to eavesdrop on the other line. “Dial his room phone, not his cell,” he instructed.

Mentally removing a secret 911 call from her list of options, Scully tucked the earpiece against her shoulder. Slowly, to disguise an unsteady hand, she dialed her partner's room.

The phone rang three times before it connected. Mulder must have been dozing. "Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me," Scully forced herself to speak smoothly. She spared a glance at the man across the room, attempting to ignore the fact that she could practically look down the barrel of his gun. 

"Scully? What's wrong?" His voice was concerned, surprised.

Thinking furiously, she met her intruder's gaze again, but only for an instant "Nothing, Mulder," she assured him. It would be a fine line, trying to communicate her situation to her partner with someone who could hear both sides of the conversation. She swiftly considered and eliminated a dozen possible statements. "I couldn't sleep, and I was reviewing the case. I think your theory last night was a good one."

Her assertion was greeted by silence and her heart lurched. Too much, she berated herself silently, keeping her eyes down. She wanted to make Mulder alert, not die of shock.

When Mulder finally did answer, his words were slightly hesitant. "You thought my idea was plausible, Scully?" he asked carefully. The slower speed danced over her sensitive nerves, but she believed--she hoped--the stranger would fail to observe the difference. 

She backed down. Okay, Mulder was unsure, but at least now he was listening. The suspicions were supposed to hit her paranoid partner like a brick, not her paranoid intruder. She knew what she had to say, what word would be a signal to her partner.

"Well, most of it," Scully replied, keeping her tone light. At the moment, she couldn't remember his last outrageous postulation to save her life--literally. She took a deep breath, knowing her next statement was essential. "I've been shuffling through the case folder, and if it's not too late, Fox, I thought we could talk about it.” She cringed internally, but she hadn't placed any odd inflections or stresses in her words.

The second hesitation was shorter than his first, but to her overactive imagination, it felt like an eternity.

Finally, Mulder said calmly. "Yeah, I'm awake, Dana. You agree with most of my theory but spotted a discrepancy?” His use of her first name was even, no glaring emphasis.

Message received. Scully bit her cheek to keep from smiling. She thought quickly because she knew there were certain words she should avoid because they were too suspicious. “Yes, a couple of things that reminded me of your first behavioral profile.”

His response was immediate. “Let me throw on some clothes and I’ll be there in five minutes.." 

"Sounds good. See you in five." She severed the connection.

When she looked over at her intruder, he was carefully removing the silencer from his weapon. After he had tucked away his death instruments, he smiled at her, this smile more genuine. "Thank you for your assistance, Agent Scully." 

He looked at the dog. “Get off the bed, Vee.”

Venus gave a low whimper and the bed vibrated as her tail wagged briefly. Scully noted the nickname and that the dog didn’t jump down, but wasn't sure how to interpret it. Why would the man dog-nap Venus from the Animal Assistance facility if he didn't know how to get her to obey. Why would he have Venus help against Crayon, She tugged up the hotel comforter. To her chin. Go to hell, Scully told him with her eyes.

As the man crossed the room back to the case folder, Scully heard the sound of a key unlocking the outer door. She tried not to freeze, tried not to make eye contact, but her she could feel her breathing accelerate. Mulder knew the layout of the suite. He would attempt to enter silently, but he would benefit from some masking noise.

"Who employs you?" she said, trying not to be too obvious in her attempt. "What is your agenda?"

But Venus must have heard the outer door open. She sat up and started barking toward it intensely. The intruder abruptly spun around to face the entrance before he leaped in her direction. Scully could see his grim expression and his gun was out. Her shoulder screamed in protest as he pulled her across the bed, dragged her away from the entrance, her handcuffed wrist twisting her arm behind her.

Suddenly, Mulder kicked his way into the bedroom. Her partner's controlled movements were balanced by his wild eyes. He shifted his aim between the intruder and the dog, who had started wagging her tail. The stranger had the safest position, much of his torso and head shielded by her body. 

And he had his weapon to her temple. "Welcome, Agent Mulder," he greeted, his voice sounding mild and firm in her ear.

"Drop your weapon." Her partner's tone was the opposite, bleak and heated. He scanned her, seeming satisfied that she was unhurt.

The man only chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "I believe I should ask the same of you unless you're tired of this partner and would like to trade her in for a new one. Me, I think you'd be foolish to lose someone like her." He pressed the cold metal harder into her skin.

Pain rocketed up Scully's trapped arm, and she barely managed to keep from vocalizing it, tried not to allow it to show on her face, knowing Mulder did not need another distraction. However, she did rotate her hand slightly, scraping it against the handcuffs. The meager adjustment eased the stress slightly.

It also brought her discomfort to the stranger's attention. Instead of tightening his grip as she expected, he leaned toward her trapped wrist, decreasing the torture to a mild ache. 

Mulder's arm wavered at the motion, but he didn't lower his gun. "You aren't going anywhere," he said. "Release her."

Venus chose that moment to roll onto her back, almost touching Scully's leg, wiggling her paws in the air. Scully’s mouth dropped open at the incongruous action, and she stared at the dog, the gun at her temple half forgotten.

Venus met her gaze, and wagged her tail enthusiastically, thumping it rhythmically against Scully's thigh. With a rare clarity, Scully suddenly knew Venus was not a threat to their safety, that this intruder wasn't either. Perhaps his information would be full of lies, but Venus seemed to be telling her that he would not kill either of them. 

It was an uncommon sensation, but it was the same certainty she had entertained when she had initially met Mulder in the headquarters basement. She had experienced a similar overwhelming feeling when she met AD Skinner. And now she felt it with a dog. 

Several years ago, her sister had tried to explain that there were certain first impressions she could *always* trust. Melissa had tried to convince her that it was based on auras, that her sister had known Mulder’s intense concern for his partner from the start. Melissa had also tried to convince her that Scully also shared this aura-reading ability. At the time, Scully had given it less consideration than the wildest theories from her partner.

"Mulder," she murmured. His gaze met hers immediately, and Scully attempted to communicate to him her confidence, her calm. Barely nodding her head, she held his eyes, allowing an encouraging smile to cross her lips. In the silence, her assailant adjusted his position again until her arm was almost comfortable.

Her partner watched her. She could see the suspicions and anger battling in his expression. Finally, Mulder skewed his gun upward as he raised both hands in surrender. The tension remained through his muscles, but was reduced.

"Thank you, Agent Mulder," the man said. "Please slide your gun across the dresser."

Mulder hesitated, and Scully could practically hear his sharp mind weigh the options. He must have his other gun on him, she realized as he ultimately slapped his weapon onto the wood. He gave it a push, and it coasted across the smooth surface, stopping alongside her own gun.

"Again, thank you." The stranger released his restrictive hold on her arm and shoulders. "We have some issues we should discuss. I'm glad you could find some time in your busy schedules to meet."

“The hotel only allows dogs on the first floor,” Mulder pointed out. “Now we’re going to have to pay a pet fee.”

Scully closed her eyes briefly at Mulder's comment. When the man pushed away from the bed and circled Mulder to return to his seat near the desk, she shifted her arm again to reduce the chafing against her wrist.

"Who are you?" Mulder asked.

"Please, take a seat, Agent Mulder," their visitor offered as continued to keep his gun trained on them. He moved their weapons under the stack of borrowed clothing next to his elbow.

Mulder settled on the edge of the bed, conspicuously placing his body in the man's line of fire and within reach of Venus. This time, Scully wouldn't protest his macho maneuver. The handcuffs severely limited her bullet-ducking capabilities. 

"My name is Walker Grey," the man informed them. "I've read so much about the two of you over the past day, it's pleasant to meet you in action. Photographs and profiles just never do a person justice."

Scully watched her partner shift his leg on the bed casually, bringing his weapon closer for easier access. The knowledge provided a needed feeling of security.

"Well, Grey--" Mulder drawled, "if it's the profile that the aliens keep on me, they took a bad photograph because it's from my left. The one the NSA has on me is much more flattering." Mulder rotated his head to show Grey his right side. "So who do you work for?"

Walker Grey leaned back in the chair casually. "Same as you, Agent Mulder. I'm a family employee of Uncle Sam. U.S. Marshall."

"And Scully and I are, what, part of the Witness Protection Program?" Mulder mocked. “It doesn’t sound like this case is in your jurisdiction.”

Grey shrugged, looking very unconcerned about the challenge to his authority. “Big government is always difficult to understand. If you don't believe me, I have a badge."

"Grey, I bet you also have badges for the CIA, ATF, Secret Service, the Department of Agriculture and as an FBI animal behaviorist. “ Mulder waved a hand at him impatiently. “We're not impressed. Did you deputize the dog?"

The man snorted. "Venus is more like an observer, hard to classify her. We are still ironing out our working relationship. I just got the case file and working with non-humans wasn’t in the job description.”

“What do you want except to bother my partner? That shiner you're developing should tell you why I don't interrupt her beauty sleep.”

"I want the same thing you do, Agent Mulder. Same person or people you do."

"I doubt it."

"Look, on the surface you're here because an FBI SAC was murdered. The US Marshalls believe it was a pair of fugitives we’ve been pursuing for years. I inherited the case because the DOJ agent working undercover in pursuit was killed.”

"I didn't know Crayon was on a most-wanted list," Mulder said. He shifted slightly, and Scully knew he was planning to change tactics from firearms to a direct tackle. She made the smallest throat-clearing that she could manage, wanting her partner to delay until they could get more information. A lying, secretive, dog-stealing, gun-happy informant was better than none at all.

Leaning back a fraction of an inch, Mulder yielded to her warning. “So the investigation into the cause of these animal attacks—the government research causing these animal attacks—is not on your agenda.”

Grey gave another twitched shrug. “ The research is complete, but there was a glitch. A leak that had to be neutralized.”

Mulder was very still. "What are you saying? The fugitives you’re after were part of the research team but is now the enforcement to make sure the leak is stopped? Scully and I have stepped into a coverup?"

Gritting her teeth, Scully realized that Mulder had made another gigantic leap in deduction, one she had not even started to put together. He was assembling an entire picture based on a few puzzle pieces--edges, a corner and a smattering of floating middle ones.

Standing up, Grey answered, "Of sorts. Plans go wrong. If the deaths hadn’t happened or if they had happened over a hundred mile radius over several months or If Dr. Teresa Chavez didn't know Dr. Dennison who knew the Sacramento SAC, would anyone have noticed the research?"

"What's your role?" Scully questioned, before Mulder became too engrossed in the possibilities. "DOJ has authority over fugitive pursuit but why would the department go undercover to arrest someone rather than approach it directly. If you truly want the same thing we want--truth and justice--what are you doing? It appears you have the identity of the fugitive. You could easily bring that man to justice."

" Agent Scully,” he answered, “I never said I want truth and justice We only had the location and alias of one of the fugitives--"

"John Henlan," Mulder interrupted. 

The marshal gave a curt nod. "We were hoping that he would lead us to the other. Now we’ve lost the pair. They are both former special forces and highly paid mercenaries.”

“It’s messy.” Mulder interrupted again. “You say this is cleaning up but it seems like it’s getting messier.”

“These men aren’t known for using a scalpel.”

Scully glared, unimpressed that he was bringing in a medical reference. “No, they’re using a blow-torch.”

“Cauterization is a very effective way to stop bleeding.”

Grey stood, placing the handcuff key on the desk's surface. “I wouldn’t advise trying to follow me," he warned 

"That's all?" Mulder ridiculed. "I get better information from my fortune cookies."

"The deaths of David and Jennie Brants may have been accidental. The possibility of corporate espionage was unexpected. Combined they forced an accelerated time schedule to close up this operation. And a hunt for the leak. The hunter has been—overenthusiastic. But it remains extremely vital that the leak is located and plugged. I suggest you accelerate your investigation to match. There will probably be more deaths if the leak isn’t located." 

Scully tensed but tried to maintain a poker face. Grey was implying that any information to the identity of the leak would halt the killings, especially if the leak were already dead. If he were telling the truth, handing over Tanisha Long’s memory card might save lives. 

“How do you know the deaths will stop if we solve this case?,” Mulder asked. “ Anyone involved has the potential to become a leak based on their memory. If Dana and I do your work for you, how do we know we’re not playing a card right into your hand?”

Scully read the question Mulder was asking her hidden within her partner’s question to Grey. He was asking if Grey had Tanisha Long’s memory card. She had thought that Mulder had inadvertently left it in her laptop last night. Now that she knew Mulder had left the hotel to pursue leads, his decision to leave the card in her safekeeping made sense. Mulder wouldn’t feel comfortable having it unguarded in his room He also wouldn’t want to risk having it taken from him or lost while he was doing his special risky brand of investigation. 

She inched her free hand forward till it grazed against the back of Mulder’s wrist. “It sounds like all the options you have are negative,” she answered, facing Grey but trying to tell Mulder with her word choice that she had the memory card and that she would let him decide what to do with it. “I don’t like the choices, but maybe Mulder does.”

Mulder’s hand shifted back slightly to apply pressure against hers, indicating that he understood her response. "I see no indication that finding the leak will keep your fugitives from killing," he said. Though he was addressing Grey, Scully knew the words were for her. "I also see no indication that the leak wasn't part of the government plan."

Grey stood again. “Once I catch these fugitives, I will consider the case closed. But I would recommend finding the leak to keep this product from getting into general circulation.” He paused at the threshold. “Please lie face down on the bed, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder hesitated but moved swiftly enough when Walker Grey shifted his aim to Scully. Venus placed two large paws on the center of his back, but Scully noted her tail was wagging.

Grey tipped an imaginary hat at her. "Good hit, Doctor Scully. Agents Scully and Mulder, thank you for the excellent evening. Come, Vee."

Scully heard the outer door to her suite open. As it did, Venus leaped off Mulder and ran after Grey.

As soon as the dog was off his back, Mulder rolled off the bed but the hotel room door was closed before his feet contacted the carpet. He ran to the hallway but returned quickly. 

“Two stairwells and the elevator,” he was muttering “not good odds.” Her partner opened her closet and began sliding hangers.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

He emerged from her closet with the empty plastic laundry bag. "You okay Scully?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she responded tightly. "If you're going to need a lot of time playing with plastic, Mulder, hand me the key so I can unlock myself."

Her partner carefully slid their guns into the bag. "Scully, you ruin all my fantasies," he grinned at her. Knotting the bag, he placed on the dresser, next to the stack of clothing. "Fingerprint opportunity for U.S. Marshall Walker Grey." He rounded the circular bed to unfasten her restraints.

Scully muffled a groan as the metal slid off. “Mulder, why does it seem like everyone knows the truth except us?”

He touched the red area around her wrist with gentle fingers. “Everyone is an expert in their own little fiefdoms, Scully. If the military-industrial complex can’t even defend against corporate espionage, assassins and a contamination of research materials to the general public, what makes you think they know the truth?”

Scully suppressed the urge to point out how broad his theory had become in only a few hours. "Mulder, why didn't you call the police? He was here long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

Her partner absorbed the scold with a shrug. "The local law enforcement had trouble sending out a unit when you dropped your cell phone with a kid screaming in the background," he explained "I doubt they would have rushed to the scene just because you called me by my first name and agreed with my theory."

She pulled her hand away from his attention, trying not to move too quickly. It would be embarrassing if Mulder believed the goosebumps on her arm were due to anything except the cool room. "Stranger things have happened, Mulder," she informed him.

He flashed a grin. "Not in my experience, Scully."


	18. Vallejo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much delayed (and very short) but this one is where I can see the layout for the remainder of this tale. Thank you for anyone who has stuck with it.

Black Oak Inn  
Vallejo, California  
October 27, 1996  
6:08 AM

Pushing the housekeeping cart out of the elevator, Evelyn parked it in front of room 605. The list on her clipboard confirmed her memory that it would be empty, and she used her master keycard to slide open the hotel door.

The room was initially dark but the motion sensor switched on the nearest light, illuminating the desk with a pallid yellow light. Evelyn liked this room because it shared a wall with the Honeymoon suite. She had managed to place it on the do- not-rent list a couple of times over the past few days but knew it would be suspicious if it landed there again. Too many housekeeping and maintenance “emergencies” would spotlight it.

She wrestled the vacuum cleaner from the housekeeping cart and shoved it against the door to leave it halfway open. She had been lucky enough to catch Agent Mulder moving from his room to his partner’s on an earlier scouting round and wondered if he was still there. The agent had seemed focused and tense, but spared Evelyn a glance. For a heart-pounding moment, she thought she had been made. It took a great amount of will nod casually at him and fold towels on her cart.

Evelyn moved behind the hotel room door and flipped through the pages on her clipboard to the page marked with today’s date. She dug through her pockets for a pen. Scribbling the time in the sliver of light from the hall, she leaned against the wall to get comfortable. Above the time, she subtracted ten minutes and squeezed in the entry “M to 603” Leaning her ear against the wall, she hoped to catch any words between the occupants.

Despite falling into a routine over the past few days, she felt her heart beating faster. She wasn’t a spy, she told herself but it was certainly spying. The scribbled pages she held were proof of her odd activity. They were disorganized, and had notations of times, snippets of conversations, clothes worn. She had recorded descriptions of Mulder’s tie choices, when he brought coffee for his partner, when he went for a run, and when he left in the middle of the night solo. She had notes of the status of Agent Scully’s limp, the way she would often open the door before her partner knocked, and her trips to the soda machine to bring back a couple of cans for their late night discussion. 

But overall Evelyn thought they were very boring federal agents--nothing like the television shows she liked to watch. Other than long hours, there were no gunshots, arguments, nor suspicious visitors. She was pretty sure that if she monitored the man who hired her for these covert activities, it would be more exciting.

But as she touched her pen to paper, she realized that she was tired of excitement. This would be her last day, though she wasn’t sure how to give notice. After a moment, she wrote the words “Thank you. This will be my last page.”

It felt right, though Evelyn decided tomorrow she would call in sick and go visit her friends in San Francisco. She pressed her ear harder against the wall and thought she could hear a muffled conversation, certainly not the usual sounds to come from honeymoon suites before dawn.

The pitch and tone seemed argumentative but she could not discern the words. She scribbled, “talking but sounds tense” and added the time.

When the door to the honeymoon suite flung open, Evelyn jumped. She bit her lip to keep from exclaiming as Agent Grey exploded out followed by a large dog. She had never asked the agent why the US Marshall service was monitoring a pair of FBI agents. And the dog was a surprise; dogs were forbidden in Black Oak Inn.

The man bulleted by the half open door, his weapon evaporating from his grip as he passed. She saw him hesitate briefly as his gaze caught vacuum cleaner and she noted his left eye was blackening. She took a half step backwards into what she hoped was complete darkness. 

Agent Grey didn’t stop, and Evelyn didn’t call out to him. However, the dog pressed a nose into the gap near the door hinge and met Evelyn’s gaze for a moment before following the agent again. They disappeared down the stairwell and Evelyn realized she was panting. The second time the door to the honeymoon suite opened, she gritted her teeth to keep quiet. 

Agent Mulder stepped out briefly and surveyed the empty hallway before returning to the room.

As the door shut again, Evelyn tucked her pen away. Guns, dogs, and fighting were all beyond her job description. Not that Agent Grey had given her one. “Take notes on the couple in the honeymoon suite” seemed like easy enough instructions for a few hundred dollars. But she had watched enough television shows to know that her role wasn’t something that would last to the end of the television series, no matter how cute and spunky she might be. At this rate, her fictional character wouldn’t even last the season. 

Climbing over the vacuum cleaner holding open her door, Evelyn placed her notes into an innocuous envelope and tucked it between rolls of toilet paper on her housekeeping cart. This character better not get axed this episode, she muttered to herself as she pushed her cart to elevator and jammed the elevator button. Though if she had to choose which person killed her, she would choose Agent Mulder, he was the only one who appeared to have a little compassion.

Evelyn left the cart parked on the fifth floor, one door down from the room directly under the honeymoon suite. She didn’t look back as she called the front desk. “Cory,” she said as she headed to the lobby, “I have a the stomach flu. Can you get Wayne to cover me?”

**************

On the drive to the Sacramento Field Office, Agent Fox Mulder took the coward’s route. He pretended to sleep as his partner wrestled with the morning rush hour traffic. He may have even faked an intermittent snore. This from a seasoned FBI agent who didn’t hesitate to throw himself into paranormal situations way over his head on a regular basis. 

Alien technology capable of warping space and time? Check. Biological weapons capable of melting your face off? Check. Parasitic organisms capable of exploding unannounced from your abdomen or throat? Got it. Unidentified entities capable of setting people on fire? Jumping in now. Invisible monsters that hunt humans? He’s coming in hot.

Petite red-headed partner with a razor sharp mind and intense loyalty? After ditching her for the millionth time? Quaking in his shoes. He really could use a few sunflower seeds, but couldn’t figure out a way to sneak them without “waking up”

Neither of them had been able to sleep after the early morning visit by alleged US Marshall Walker Grey. Mulder had wanted to demonstrate the first inkling of his cowardice by going for a long run, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Scully by herself. He knew it was an irrational concern. His partner tended to keep a cool head on her shoulders and was a better shot. With no escape available that his conscience would permit, he had fastened onto the telephone with a string of calls to the Department of Justice, the FBI Concord Resident Agency, the Orinda police department, and the Walnut Creek police department. 

Afterward, he had monopolized Scully’s laptop to re-examine Tanisha Long’s memory card. He had looked for any clue to determine if she had been stealing secrets independently or if she had a partner in crime. Scully had spent the time showering, dressing her wrist, and making sure Grey had not taken anything from the case file. 

Mulder had provided unintelligible responses through a couple of her conversation starters. Scully finally allowed their truce to stand and stopped trying to talk to him. After a few minutes of very heavy silence, Mulder finally deserted his partner.

However, his escape was short-lived. The longer he was away, his feeling of unease increased exponentially, and Mulder had one of the quickest showers of his life to minimize Scully’s time alone. He had returned to find her fastening her empty weapon holster over a pristine blouse. She glanced more than once at the closed bag holding their weapons but did not comment as she slid one arm through her suit jacket.

Mulder stepped up behind her to help her into the other arm. He offered her his backup weapon by the barrel and had beat down his stab of panic as she accepted it wordlessly and slid it into her empty holster. 

By the time they were on the road without Scully confronting him about his late night investigative work, Mulder was pretty sure their truce was a borderline farce. 

His fake sleeping cost him his choice of pastry when Scully went through the coffee drive-thru but when she ordered three edibles, he knew two were for him. More difficult, his fake sleeping cost him the opportunity to complain about how close to the dashboard Scully had moved the bench seat of the rental car. He was sure she had chosen the closest setting.

Almost to Sacramento, he had to sacrifice his hiding technique when his cell phone rang. 

“Mulder,” he said, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he had answered it too quickly for someone who had been sleeping.

“Agent Mulder? Agent Chow here. I am just calling to tell you that Corganman moved the meeting this morning to my office instead of the conference room.”

“Less witnesses.”

“Something like that,” Chow gave a short laugh. “Please tell Agent Scully that I’ll bring the BATA information she requested. See you soon.”

Mulder disconnected and looked down at his phone. He considered asking Scully about the BATA abbreviation but realized that any query would be a signal that their temporary truce was over.

He continued his campaign of avoidance by dialing the Stampede manufacturing facility instead and started the process of setting up a visit. It took several layers and departments but he was able to procure an appointment with the Vice President of Public Affairs before noon. By coincidence, he ended his last call as Scully was pulling into the parking lot at the Sacramento Field Agency, though he was sure Scully believed the timing was intentional.

He grabbed a few sunflower seeds from a stash in his pocket and looked across the car at her but she was already climbing out without talking. There were a few items he had discovered during his overnight explorations but decided she wasn’t ready to discuss them. He grabbed the bag holding their weapons and the coffee she had purchased for him. He would have just enough time to drop the weapons at the lab before the meeting.

Scully was already across the parking lot by the time he closed the car door, not notably hampered by a limp. Mulder gnawed on a sunflower seed as he made to follow in her wake. Perhaps cease fire was a more accurate description than truce.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all input is welcomed with a smile!


End file.
